PICK YOUR POISON
by ShadedEclipse
Summary: Reincarnation, she thinks, would be a lot more fascinating if she weren't predestined to die. ( From fire, genocide, amber lead— take your pick. ) Lami OC-insert fic.
1. prologue

warnings. / none, for now. mind the tags.

tags. / **tragedy.** **slow build**. adventure & exploration. mental illness. for want of a nail. potential lgbt themes. will contain explicit depictions of **canon-typical** violence and dark themes (including, but not limited to death, genocide, childhood trauma, slavery, human trafficking, torture... overall the less freedom-seeking side of piracy).

* * *

OO.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _prologue._

* * *

It's seven in the afternoon when things suddenly, horrifyingly, click into place.

And the girl- she _remembers_. Not of this life, but of another.

Trafalgar D. Water Lami is all of three years old, and this young decaying vessel is bound to die within the next six years.

( The girl has always known that she is peculiar, prior to this moment. How could she not? She merely had not known how perilous the situation was— until _now_.

She never felt quite _right_ in this body; as if she is wearing a suit too small, as if her limbs don't quite move like she is used to. She has recollections of _things_ that _Lami_ has never experienced before. Of flying metal automobiles, handheld devices with a _world's_ worth of knowledge neatly tucked inside, and city lights that span across _miles_. Recalls languages and _information_ that Lami, in all of her youth, has no chance of understanding let alone the opportunity to _know_. There are _people_ in her dreams whom she _knows_ she once loved, but can never remember- as if their memory is but a figment in a fog that coats her mind. Faces and names blurring together in an illegible fashion, almost tangible in thought but _just_ out of reach.

She's far more intelligent than her peers but far too mature to be quite _right_. The language of the land comes to her easily, as though putting together pieces of a puzzle, however, the _usage_ of the language is careful, deliberate, and cognitive.

 _She_ supposes that she is lucky. Her parents, rather than abhor or remain suspicious over her oddities, find delight in her intelligence. _Two for two_ , her father says with pride. Two genius', under one roof. How delightful.

If only they knew the extent of _what_ their daughter is, then maybe they would not feel so blessed by her presence. )

But it's not until _then_ , at seven o'clock in the afternoon of an otherwise fine day, that it really _clicks_ that she is not _from_ here. She is not from a _world_ where pirates rein havoc over the oceans, or where _fruit_ grant magical abilities. _Her_ world is not divided into four seas and a belt, _her_ world is not governed by a single entity. Technology in _this_ world is not lacking, but it is so so _different_. She is not from _here_ but she _knows_ where this is, knows _who_ she is.

 _She_ is not Lami, and she is not from a world depicted in a comic book.

.

.

The next day she wakes to the realization that she is still _h e r e_.

( She wonders when i̶f̶ this nightmare will end. )

.

.

Lami loves her brother, Law, but ever since her memories _clicked_ back into place she cannot stand to treat him with the same loving devotion she used to. When she didn't remember; when she didn't _know_.

It fills her with guilt. He is a good, honest kid. Law doesn't deserve this treatment, he doesn't deserve _her_. She has stolen his precious little sister from him and _he doesn't even know it_. She doesn't know what to do. She _can't_ act like the ray of sunshine and love that he is worthy of- she isn't _capable_ of it, not anymore. Not in her last life, not in this life. Not when she has looked death in the eyes, not when she can still feel it's very imprint on the crux of her _soul_. When she looks at him all she can see is the pain and _suffering_ he will go through later on in life. How _she_ will die, how their parents will perish, how the world around them will burn to the ground thanks to the greed and gluttony of those in higher power.

She _wants_ to be a good sister. To give him a version of Lami that he deserves.

But.

Every time she looks at him her chest and gut _ache_. Like she can't breathe; like she's struggling below the waves of a _past_ she cannot recall. She can _almost_ pretend like she isn't in a world riddled with corruption, slaughter, and evil if it wasn't for _him_. Law is a constant reminder that she is in a world far from her own. A reminder of the _past_ and the _people_ she was forced to leave behind. A reminder that she is doomed to die within the next few years of her already short life.

 _She_ loves her brother dearly, too, but she can't stand to look at him without thinking about what she has _lost_ and what she is going to _lose_.

.

.

Lami's parents worry about her change in personality.

It's understandable. She is much more introverted and morose than before. _She_ can't help it. She is not Lami and she can't bother to pretend to be. Even still, the Lami she was before her memories clicked in was not the Lami that she _remembers_ \- not the bubbly, soft, kind young girl who would hold Law's hand and grin and grin and _grin_ -

Not to say that she remembers a lot; admittedly, her memory of a show she watched as a pastime is not the greatest. But she remembers enough about the odd cartoon about pirates and the gray moralities of those with power, _knows_ enough to know that she is absolutely _fucked_.

Regardless Lami's parents worry... until they stop.

She catches them whispering to one another one night, tittering in Lami's father's office; _how adorable, she's imitating her older brother!_

 _how precious!_

She loves these parents, but she can't help but be glad that they are doctors and not psychologists. Maybe _then_ they would understand the extent of the problem.

She revels in their ignorance.

.

.

In her spare time, she writes in her journals.

Reincarnation, she thinks, would be a great deal more fascinating if she weren't predestined to die.

( From fire, genocide, amber lead- take your pick. )

This world is _much_ different than her last. It's as though all the rules of her past world simply do not apply to this one. Humans are much more durable, have a higher capacity for strength, speed, and pain. Their bodies themselves seem almost… built different, though extremely similar. _Humans, in general,_ differ so drastically that _she_ cannot even begin to fathom the scientific implications, let alone the other multitude of humanoid species that inhabit the world ( _and the moon!_ ). The animals and creatures of this world are completely different than her… past one. They hold abilities and intelligence that those of her last world could hardly comprehend. _Willpower_ is enough to break the flimsy rules that govern how this universe works; all of which completely baffles her.

As bizarre and seemingly _impossible_ as this world is, she finds herself _fascinated_ as she reads through books, or listens to her parents tell her stories of this world. Similar, but _so_ different that she can't help but marvel.

( It would have been nice, to be reborn in a fascinating place like this; had she not been shackled with a futile fate. )

 _She_ was never a scientist or a doctor, or anything of the sort. She was an intellectual who enjoyed reading and theory- but she was never very involved with physics or biology aside from basic courses she attended in her youth. As such, she can't wrap her brain around the changes that viciously whiplash her senses. The environment had been her domain of interest, food security and advocating for helping those in need. None of... _this..._ had been her specialty, and she feels awfully out of place. Bitterness clings at her rib cage. She is a bad candidate to _stop_ things, to save herself— if that is even her purpose for being _here_.

It's laughable if anything.

The issues at hand are far more than what _she_ alone can deal with.

In theory, the fire that would lick at the flesh of Lami's poison-leaden body would be easy to avoid, however, the war that was bound to irrupt? The centuries worth of accumulating poison exposure and inherited low life expectancy rate? The corrupt government and royal family that willingly subjected their people to a slow and antagonizing death? _These_ aren't things that she can _fix_. She can't just... cure a disease that even the best _doctors_ on the island won't achieve. She can't parade herself around a war wrecked land and not expect to get injured or caught. She can't just stand up to the nation and world government and say _hey could you not destroy us?_

The frustrating part is that there will be no point in the war bound to erupt; her generation is fated to be that last one, anyway. The world government would willingly allow the nation of Flevance to be slaughtered and discriminated against... for nothing. For a cover-up, lest anyone find out that they allowed the country to wallow in exposed poison for monetary gain.

( She thinks it's awfully cruel to offer a second chance, only at the expense of being pushed into an impossible situation. )

Everything she thinks, everything she remembers- she writes it all down.

The language of this world is one she cannot recall from her old one. It's not English or Japanese, not Spanish or French. Completely original. She supposes that she should have expected this; they are completely different worlds, what are the chances of universal languages? It might also be a blessing in disguise. It means she can write in her journals without the peeping eyes of her parents or her brother. Not that she thinks they would do such a thing as impede on her privacy- but she can't help but be vigilant in a world destined to burn.

She writes as much as she can remember about _One Piece_ , about the characters - people, now - of goals and _arcs_. But Lami cannot remember much. It had been a pastime, something she enjoyed to do on the side. The adventures of Luffy and his friends had been nothing but something she would do when she had nothing else to fill her time. She tries though, and fills her books with as much useless information as she can, lest it… somehow, be useful in the future.

But that's not all she writes.

Lami writes stories, nursery rhymes, songs, _anything_ from her past life- anything that can allow her to _believe_ that yes, _that_ life had been real. It isn't a figment of her imagination, it isn't just a _dream_ she had. These languages she knows, these stories and _knowledge_ has to have come from somewhere, right?

Her parents encourage this behaviour. Lami thinks that _they_ enjoy the thought that both of their children are ridiculously smart, leagues above their peers. She takes advantage of their leniency as much as possible.

( She tries not to think about how she has stolen their daughter;

how she is a changeling in disguise;

how she has desecrated the _idea_ of _Lami_. )

.

.

Lami starts to loathe the colour _white_.

Flevance is _stunning_ ; the story had that right, at least. It glitters and sparkles with the sort of beauty that is aesthetically pleasing to the eye and _radiates_ with wealth and marvel. Pretty ivory painted across the grass and sky, like a canvas waiting to be sketched on. Walking around the town itself feels as though she is walking through a fairytale - though, she supposes she _is_ \- with its mystical and gaudy white semblance. It's understandable _why_ people would be attracted to this country, to the city she lives in. _Gorgeous_ , _splendid,_ _breathtaking_. It _reeks_ with a sort of _holiness_ that begs for devotion.

She supposes that the people of this world haven't learned that the most beautiful things, oftentimes, are the most dangerous.

The longer she stays the more acidic her throat and stomach feel; the heavier the pressure on her chest and ribs. Every breath taken is ripped through her throat with force and effort. Every bite of food is shoved, pushed, _persuaded_ past her teeth. The happiness of others, their carefree _unknowing_ smiles cast sharp pains into her heart and gut, _knowing, knowing,_ that this beauty they hold in reverence is bound to kill them. Everything here is _white, white, white-_ and isn't ironic how the _white_ in this country is symbolic of _death_?

Sometimes she laughs at this thought, sometimes she is wrecked motionless.

( she doesn't want to die. )

.

.

Lami's parents stare at her oddly, when one day she leaves her room wearing plastic gloves tucked into her sleeves and a medical mask covering her face.

"Dear…" Her mother says with a tone of concern, and exchanges a look with her father, "What are you wearing?"

Honestly, she hasn't thought much of how she should explain this. Saying, ' _our nation is plagued with poison exposure, and the only way I can think to stop it is to cut it off'_ would not do. Best case scenario they wouldn't believe her. Worst case, they _would_.

She takes a moment before mumbling, "... germs."

Her mother simply stares for a moment while her father gives an amused laugh. He turns to his wife and motions in her direction with an obvious sense of pride, "This one is going to be a doctor."

They laugh, and Lami continues to thank the heavens for their obliviousness.

Law, on the other hand, looks contemplative.

.

.

( the next day she finds law wearing gloves and a mask as well, and she _preens_. she loves him. her chest bursts with a fondness for her older little brother and she feels _glad_ that _maybe_ this might help, maybe it'll _do_ something… but she also can't help the tiny tinge of resentment that lingers in her gut and says;

 _he doesn't need this, i do. he's not going to die. i am-_ )

.

.

It takes a few months, but she somehow manages to trudge her way out of her wallowing depression that has hung over her head like an oppressive wave of force. It remains, still, and she doubts that it'll ever pass, but it becomes manageable. Functional.

Flevance, in all its brilliant glory, is a pit of festering disease. She knows that she will not get any better if she stays here. She knows that she _will_ die, should she sit by and abide by what story dictates. Remaining passive and _allowing_ this to continue would sully whatever... _being_ gave her this new chance at life. Those who stand still do not recognize the chains that cling to their feet; but she has the gift, the _opportunity_ , to _do_ something about the fate that has been tethered onto her. There are very few who are given this _opportunity_ , even if her hurdles are seemingly impossible to overcome.

No longer can she act docile, wait for a saviour to come and extract her from this destiny.

It doesn't matter if she is Lami or... Whoever she was, in her past life. Now she is neither of them. She is someone entirely different, _something_ entirely different. Made of lead and death; tethered together by an unknown source. But it doesn't matter.

Whoever she is- _she_ doesn't _want_ to die.

And in a world that bends and breaks over the strength of one's will, maybe - just maybe - she can garner her freedom, release herself from her chains that bind her wrists and ankles, and _change_ her story.

.

.

( she has a plan. )


	2. changeling

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O1.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _changeling_ _._

* * *

change·ling

 **ˈCHānjliNG/**

 _noun_

1\. a child believed to have been secretly substituted by fairies for the parents' real child in infancy.

.

.

* * *

All it takes is a few subtly - or not so subtly - placed fliers to catch Lami's parents' attention.

 _St. Monroe's Girls School Of Excellence._

A guaranteed path to a child's success, the brochure promises, along with the companionship of other like-minded girls whose ambition and connections would forever remain in their care. From ages 4-16, St. Monroe's dedicates itself to molding the perfect lady, isolated on the island of Briar North where students can focus solely on their studies and self-discovery. With courses such as _E_ _tiquette_ , Music, and the Fine Arts, St Monroe's commits to upholding the _best qualities_ in a woman while also offering the highest quality in knowledge in regards to the Sciences and Maths. Boasting an approval rate of 98% from students, St. Monroe's vows to create a worthwhile and successful environment for any and all girls wishing to do great things.

Lami is certain that it is all a ruse, a scam for money and an everlasting power trip, but she has stopped caring. Her standards are low, now that she is growing desperate.

All she can see is _white_ , _white_ , _white_ \- and she's not sure she can _take_ it anymore.

She'd rather submit herself to the dictatorship of private school in attempts of cutting herself from the source of her poisoning than watch in complacent silence as she _dies_. Every touch, every bit of food, every _breath_ is done painstakingly; wondering, wondering, if _this_ is the minuscule amount of poison that dictates whether she is past the point of no return or not. How is she to know if her life is redeemable yet? How is she to know how much more of her life is left before it is a race towards death? Has she already crossed the halfway point? Was she born with the intention and destiny of failing?

Hope can only last so far, she tells herself before remembering where she is, _who_ she is.

 _Hope, determination,_ _**will**_ _, can make or break the universe- only in trying will she get her answers. Only through trying can she succeed._

 _._

 _._

( Sometimes she forgets;

fake or not, she is a _D_. in the making, and she will make the world _tremble_ in an effort to claw back together whatever scraps of her life are left )

.

.

Her parents are hesitant to consider the idea of sending their child to an all-girls private school, having their minds set on sending her to the same medical school as Law. But Lami remains relentless in her passive-aggressive reminders. Brochure here. Comment there. Newspaper articles littered across the floor. She wishes she had more female friends, she hopes to one day be an influential woman in society-

( She will not be ignored; she will not remain _h e r e._ )

Lami's _plan_ will take time to execute; will require money and supplies that she can not obtain just yet. At the age of four, she is too young to be taken seriously by anyone of importance. Too inexperienced in the world and it's ways to go out into it safe and sound. She cannot stop a war, she cannot stop genetic diseases. However, she can't allow herself to believe it's hopeless; and maybe it truly is a hopeless effort, but that is a hurdle that she can overcome later. For now, she needs to _study_ , she needs to _strengthen_ \- she _needs_ so much and she's not sure if she can procure it, and yet the only way she can know for sure is if she relentlessly and hazardously reaches and _reaches-_

Because at the end of the day, in the secluded and gorgeous walls of Flevance, she has - _is_ \- nothing but a rotting corpse of a body.

She needs to leave, soon- _now._

The sense of urgency that claws at her chest is not one that she can express out loud without questions arising, but she can feel it pulling and tugging at her sanity. Fragile cracks splittering across her mind, a spider web ready to shatter. There's a countdown floating over her head, _tick-tock_ , and it's only a matter of time before it all falls away into nothing.

.

.

"There are _pirates_." Lami overhears her mother saying one night, and she gets the impression they have been arguing for some time now given how _exhausted_ she sounds.

"Statistically speaking-"

"Don't." Her mother warns, "With the Donquixote's, Vinsmokes, and Ryerson's running amok there are _no_ safe places in the North Blue regardless of your _statistics_. Do you really want to take that risk? With our daughter?"

"She has a keen mind, a will to explore! If we smother it now then she may lose all of her creative potential, or worse, come to resent us for limiting her freedom. Briar North is only three islands away, we could travel there in two days at _most_."

"That's a two-day gap where _anything_ can happen without us even _knowing_! At least we can make sure she is safe here. Taken care of. Pirates don't come here! Thugs, bandits, vagabonds, they are nonexistent!"

"Do you know what else will be nonexistent? Her curiosity. Her _ambition_. She has a flame inside of her, and if left undeveloped she _will_ wilt. If we let her explore, just a little bit, in a controlled environment then perhaps she won't become one of those thugs or vagabonds that you fear so much."

Lami can _just_ barely hear her mother whisper, "I don't like it. She's only four."

"You say that like she's a _normal four-year-old_."

.

.

Law spends most of his time studying, which makes it all the more special when he takes the time to sneak Lami out of the house to play or buy snacks. It's.. adorable how he naturally gained this sort of… feeling of responsibility for her, wanting to make sure that she is happy but not being especially good at conveying his thoughts and emotions. The effort is more than enough, though a part of her feels… morose.

(she is not lami)

He's not the most sociable kid, kind of shy if not a bit uninterested in interacting with kids their age who do not hold the same esteem as him, but he always tries for Lami. Though, she's not exactly a friendly individual either. Trying to play with the other kids at the playground can be… tedious. She's just glad that Law shares this trait. It means that they can avoid kid's their age without her looking suspicious to onlookers because it's the two of them. They're simply... like this, nothing more to question. Singularly they stand out, but together it must be in their genetics.

Sometimes she rallies kids to play, just in case, when the fear of being lax threatens to overcome her.

Sometimes Law and Lami just sit in silence. These are the best times, simply enjoying the company of the other.

(she tries not to think;

shadows lurk in the corners of her mind; _resentment, guilt, anger, fear_.

so long as she runs she can pretend that everything is okay )

.

.

"Please." She whispers one night, unbidden, cracking with an emotion that one her age should not have acquired so soon.

There is a long silence. Her mother sighs.

"... Alright."

.

.

In the privacy of her mind, she calls herself a changeling; a _ravenous_ beast of a child playing house in the empty shambles of an innocent taken away before it was her time.

There is nothing that can be done about it now, she _knows_ this. Lami has run the logistics through her head many nights, debated with herself, argued. _Lami_ , the child within the story, does not possess this body anymore. It's _her_ , the changeling, that can _feel_. That can _speak_. That can _think_. She has made this body her own, has taken over Lami's life, has felt the warmth and love of her parents and brother.

And with the knowledge of the future, she intends on _keeping_ it this way.

She does not know where _Lami_ has gone, if she was ever an existence in the first place, and while the guilt festers like an open wound _she_ knows that she cannot falter in her steps. Hesitance, doubt, indecision- the first steps to complacency, a feeling she cannot afford when every moment _counts._

( It doesn't stop the growing cavern in her chest; may as well call her _Tartarus_.)

She knows that she has to cut herself some slack. Perhaps she too was a child taken before it was her time; taken unwittingly in the dark where no eyes on this plane could witness it.

In folklore changelings are said to be _hungry_ ; plagued with insatiable appetites that tear families apart with their unsustainable cravings. While widely believed that in the middle century families in poverty needed reasons to excuse a child's need for food, Lami thinks that she too needs to be _hungry_ \- needs to _ache_ , to allow _desire_ and _survival_ to tear at her flesh and bone. The type of hunger nothing in this world could satisfy;

Only then, she thinks, will she unlock mysteries of this universe.

.

.

"The Void Century is rather evident in its name; any and all events that occurred during this time is… unknown. Missing from history."

Lami watches as Law continues to breathe out a snot bubble as he sleeps, head propped up on a fist in a bad attempt of faux awareness. Another one of the many phenomena that baffles her about his world; there is a literal bubble of snot growing and decreasing in size as he slumbers. Does phlegm in this world have a different… molecular makeup, consistency, or something, in this world? Lami was never a very science-driven individual, but she can't help but admit that she is fascinated. It's like watching a balloon.

She had never bared witness to such as thing in her old world, at least not that she recalls.

Then again, there isn't much that she remembers.

"No historical records have been found in the past _eight hundred years_ that can give insight into what happened, and no one knows the truth of what the Void Century is…"

It's not unusual for Law to fall asleep in their father's history lectures, especially if it has nothing to do with science or the sea. While especially intelligent and dedicated, not even Law can remain with a steady heart in the face of their father's monotonous one-sided dialogue. History in itself is a rather interesting topic, however, their father has the habit of… tenaciously and passionately rambling about various points of history that both Law and Lami find themselves rolling their eyes at.

Honestly, who cares about Noland the Liar and the social consequences of this children's story? Or Valentine Alys, the man who took siege of a city by himself nearly three hundred years ago.

"There are plenty of theories as to why the Void Century happened. One such theory is the Great World War theory, which claims that history, literature, and art were destroyed in the midst of a large war. Another theory claims that a _devil fruit_ was the cause of the missing century..."

Their father hasn't noticed that Law is still asleep, and she doubts that he will until after the lecture is over. Sometimes she wonders why her father is a doctor, and not a professor. He certainly likes to talk and she's certain that there must be some overlap. Doctors need to be taught, after all. You know, not just kids like Law and Lami.

Lami picks up a pencil and quietly reaches over the desk to poke at the newly forming bubble. It remains stubborn for a moment and then pops.

Law remains asleep.

There's guck on her pencil, so she reaches over and snags Law's. He's clearly not going to use it.

"...of course, most academics believe that history wasn't recorded simply because there was nothing to record. While uncommon, it is not unheard of. In fact, many islands don't believe in the written form of history and prefer spoken word and story-telling. The fact that it was an entire century spanning from all corners of the known world, however, is certainly a thought to mull over."

She wonders what her father would think about The Ancient Kingdom. There.. isn't a lot that she remembers about it, other than it's fall in the Void Century by those who would later form the Celestial Dragons, the Poneglyphs, and the Ancient Weapons. But it was underlined multiple times in her notebook so it must be something _very_ important. She doubts it's a detail she needs for the time being, but twenty years down the line she's pretty sure she will be cursing herself over her missing fragments of memory.

She notes down a few things in her book, mostly theories.

 _* void century; unknown._  
 _* possibly caused by war? or laziness._  
 _* mysterious  
_ _* probably bc of the cd & wg_  
* poneglyphs - different types. red = road

 _* ancient kingdom_  
 _* probably great_  
 _* probably powerful enough to scare people into forgetting history_  
 _* how were they destroyed if they were so great_  
 _* books burnt? sad._  
 _* what if the d.'s are from the ak? or the nobility of ak._  
 _* does that make me nobility  
_ _* it's been 800/900 years that's enough time to spread their genetics right_

 _* Im  
_ _* straw hat = treasure?  
_ _* ?_

"What we _do_ know, however, is that the World Government was formed after the Void Century, along with the Council of Kings; both institutions are still standing and thriving to this day. As of our current knowledge, they are the longest-running political parties that the world has seen..."

Lami mulls.

She pokes Law in the cheek and his head plunks down onto the desk.

Her father doesn't notice and instead continues.

"It's quite remarkable, really, how long the government has managed to maintain peace and control over the world, especially considering the slave rebellions that happened 200 years ago. Since then slavery has been abolished, proving that social movements can chang-"

Lami yawns. Propaganda. Also, incredibly wrong. She's not certain what her father would think if he ever found out that slavery is still a very prominent practice in the Grand Line; particularly with the Celestial Dragons.

"What if the World Government caused the Void Century." Lami drawls, not wanting to listen to the "good deeds" that the lapdogs of their overlords have done.

The World Government knows about the _poison_ slowly building in their bodies, how they will _all die_ in time, and doing nothing about it for _financial gain_ ; would turn their backs on Flevance in their _time of need_ ; would make the world _fear_ their existence despite knowing the harmlessness of their disease to those who aren't born with it; would allow the _genocide_ of Flevance's citizens while _freeing_ their nobility. She tries not to think about it. She _really_ tries. Thinking about it makes her blood boil and her stomach drop as though she was dropped from a mountain top.

No no, she can't think about it not when _her dad is going to-_

"Oh sweetheart," He says with a _fondness_ that drips from his voice, despite her blatant treachery. Her father has always adored curious minds, those willing to ask difficult questions in order to achieve understanding. "The World Government brings order to our world, why would they ever do such a thing?"

She wants to be sick.

.

.

There are papers that need to be filled out, tests that need to be taken- but Lami _knows_ that she passes with flying colours. She is no four year old, and the questions asked are child's play even if the school boasts excellence and superiority over schools within the island string they live on.

She watches with her father as the carrier bird flies off with all of her documents.

It's only a matter of time, now.

.

.

Law doesn't take the news well.

It happens at dinner, their parents casually bringing up the subject; Lami will be attending St. Monroe's Girls School of Excellence in two months time.

For the first time in a while, Lami feels like she has a real chance; like this all isn't just her reaching into the dark in hopes of grabbing _something_. Maybe her theories will be correct, perhaps she can do the _impossible_ in a way that no one, including herself, thought possible. There is nothing more that she _craves_ than the opportunity to breath in untainted air, to _eat_ without wanting to vomit, to _sleep_ without dreading that _this is it, this is the one that will lead me to my death_.

It doesn't occur to her that Law might.. _feel_ something about her decision. That he might become upset or lash out.

Why would he?

But she watches as he stops mid-way through a bite and simply _stares._

" _What_?!"

There's something to his voice; an emotion close to anger but with too much _heartache_ to really be considered as such. As if his voice is too fragile to perfectly convey the torrent of emotions that he feels, and it's… shocking. Lami had never thought, could never fathom, that he would disagree.

She forgot; he is a person, he is a _child_.

Law looks from his parents to Lami and- his face twists into a look of pure, wrenching, _betrayal,_ before he pushes his chair backward with gusto and storms out of the room.

Lami stares, bewildered, and her mother sighs.

"Don't worry," Her father says with reassurance. "He'll come around."

The look her mother sends to her father does not settle the unease that has settled in her stomach.

.

.

( she doesn't regret her decision; it is her _life_ on the line, and she _will not_ regret doing what she needs to in order to survive. she holds no ill-will towards law, loves him, even. but he doesn't need to worry, not now, not for another twenty years. he will not die anytime soon, and maybe it's selfish but she cannot allow herself guilt or hesitance over the steps she must make to _be there at his side_ when he needs it most.

however when, later that night, she hears the quiet sobbing in the room next to hers she-

 _feels_.

her fingers curl into the fabric of her sheets as she presses her face into her mattress.

 _breathe_. one step at a time. this heartache is minuscule in comparison to the ones yet to come. _breathe_. )

.

.

For the next few weeks, Law refuses to talk to Lami or their parents. He eats, he sleeps, he studies. Otherwise, he ignores their presence and runs into his room whenever the opportunity arises.

Lami pretends not to care.

 _breathe._


	3. departure

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O2.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _departure_ _._

* * *

Rain pitter-patters against the window of her parent's library, the weather as gloomy and disparaging as her mood. Flevance is blessed with a near-constant state of good weather, but not today. Winds rocks at the glass of the window, water falling from the sky in sheets. A nearby rumbling of thunder startles Lami from her reverie and she rubs her eyes.

A book (' _Sora, Warrior of the Sea: How children's stories shape perception'_ ) lay face up, all but neglected for the past hour.

It's not that the documentary is uninteresting. Far from it, in fact. She likes picking at points of history that are muddled with the interference of the World Government, and although Sora is merely a fictional character the comic is rampant with propaganda. Which is to be expected from the Marines, at this point. Any source of wide-scale media is targeted towards possible recruits, the comic calling towards youth. Interestingly, the paper runs the comic in the North Blue, considering that most inhabitants _know_ that the army is run and comprised of the Vinsmokes and their kingdom.

But there are more important things on her mind than how the world perceives Germa 66 as a folk story.

She leaves Flevance in five days. Anticipation coils like a snake in her gut. She doesn't know if she's ready, doesn't know if she can wait any longer. Stuck in suspension, watching the clock as it _tick tick ticks_.

The door to the library creaks and Lami lazily slides her gaze over to inspect only for her breath to catch. Law stands frozen and half-hidden in the doorway. His hand tightens on the doorknob as their eyes meet, stare down only lasts for a few seconds before he cooly backs off. As if he'd never been there in the first place.

"Wait-" She starts, and then stops. The retreating footsteps are quiet and soft. She stares at the place he had stood for a few moments too long.

Six weeks. It's been six weeks and Law still refuses to talk to her.

In all honesty, Lami hadn't expected her brother to last so long in his silence. She'd always known him to be stubborn, but... Children typically recover faster, right? She can't remember, and it's not as though either she or Law are typical children. Law shows no signs of giving up his cold war. A part of her hopes that once she leaves he will forget that it hurt to see her go in the first place, but she knows that it's a selfish desire. Lami wants her brother back but doesn't want to deal with the consequences of her actions. As it is, she won't be in Flevance to witness the effects of her departure, will come back after the wound has scabbed over. It's selfish of her to want things to smooth over already, _now_.

She hadn't realized how dependent on Law she has become. When _she_ had first awoken, _she_ had regarded Law as the thing that held her back from ignorant bliss. Now, though, he is a source of _hope_ \- proof that she _can_ survive all this if she plays her cards right. If she is _careful_. If she is _smart_.

Hope is a dangerous word, she's smart enough to realize this too. It means she has something to lose, it means that the world can tear her down even further than it already has.

But. She _needs_ it. The hope, the determination.

She _needs_ Law.

There's no getting around the fact that she is _selfish_. The letters are strung across her chest and heart, carved into the very meat of her soul. It's not a trait to be proud of, she knows. However, maybe she should wear it like pride, like armour. She's going to let an entire country fall and perish, for her convenience. Law is going to suffer, for her convenience. Wouldn't it be better to embrace the cold truth now, before it rots away at her conscience any more than it already has?

Let her be selfish and _hungry._ Grasping for straws and clawing at any flickering light of hope that she can procure.

She has a growing suspicion that Law will not forgive her anytime soon. The more desperate she grows, the more hazardous she'll tear at the world around her. It's only inevitable for Law to get caught in the crossfire of her recklessness. To hurt. The unease that had settled in her stomach at the time of Law's outburst has all but solidified like a rock, sinking lower and lower and _lower_.

"It's almost like lead in my stomach." She murmurs to herself with dull amusement in a language, not from this world, chin propped in her palm and gazing out the rain-fogged window.

Lately, her humour has taken a dark turn. Lami can't help but laugh at the helplessness of her situation, can only watch as things start to unravel and fall apart. She wonders if she'll be stuck swaying between numbing existential dread and hysterics forever.

One day, maybe, Law will forgive her.

A mirthless smile smears her face at the thought. She knows _she_ does not deserve his forgiveness.

.

.

"I think that's enough sulking from you." Her father tells Law one day at breakfast, voice firm but kind. "Your sister has a bright future ahead of her at Briar North."

Her mother sighs as if she already knows how this conversation is going to end. Which is most likely true. Lami certainly does.

When Law doesn't say anything, their father continues. "It might be good for the two of you, anyway! Make some friends. Mingle with others. It'll be healthy, for both of you. I know your studies are doing just fine as it is, but it wouldn't hurt to get to know your classmates. Make some connections. Go outside every once in awhile- both of you are so _pale_."

Lami picks at her eggs with a silver fork, already despondent and detached from the conversation. She's not sure why their father is even trying anymore, despite her brother's stubborn silence. It's not as though she _hasn't_ tried to reach out to Law.

But.

It's difficult. She fundamentally _knows_ that _leaving_ Flevance is what she has to do for her survival. Leave her parents, leave her brother, leave all the fucking amber lead and all its splendor. The rationalization seeps into every conversation that she tries to start, and she has learnt that the moment she tries to bring logic into the mix she has already lost Law's interest in the conversation. Her brother doesn't care about what is _logical._ Not now, at least. Only that he _feels_ like she is abandoning him. That his family is ignoring his emotions. Lami knows that it _hurts_ Law to be silenced in this way, that it's not healthy for a growing boy to think that he's not allowed to voice his emotions, that he's not allowed to be _hurt_ and _sad_ -

But. She can't stop, and it frustrates her. She _needs_ him to understand; needs him to know that she isn't leaving _him_.

Flevance can rot in its holy amber, but Law- she _needs_ him.

"I don't want _friends_." Law _hisses_ , which is the most she has heard from him in weeks. "I don't _want_ peers. The only thing I _want_ by my side is _leaving me behind_!"

His voice cracks.

A hush falls over the dining room. Lami stares at her eggs, static filling her ears until the silence begins to feel like a weight on her shoulders. When she looks up, she sees that Law is _glowering_ at her. The heat to his gaze doesn't fool anyone in the room, she can see the heartbreak and the wetness of his eyes. They _beg_ for her to do something, say _something-_

Lami scrambles, mind turning. Her thoughts come together and then fall away like ash in the wind, unattainable and impossible to contain.

Before she can say anything, a wet laugh escapes Law. He stares angrily at the table, mouth thinning into a severe line, then pushes his chair back and flees despite her parent's exclamations.

( the horrid truth is-

she isn't trying to be cruel. but that does not mean she's being kind. )

.

.

Her nighttime thoughts replay over and over again like a broken record.

 _Guilt, fear, desperation, determination_ -

Her choices weigh heavy on her chest. She does not regret them but there is acknowledgement in the fact that she is leaving a country to die. And though the hole in her soul grows larger yet, her eyes remain dry; months of building panic and dread has drained her ability to weep, replacing her mind with a steady static.

She should be happy. She is leaving. She has a chance.

But instead, she stares blankly at the wall separating her room from Law's. Ten feet separate them but never before has she ever felt their distance quite like _this_. She stares and stares, half hoping for a void to open upon the flat surface. For Law to emerge with one of his smirk smiles, asking if she _really_ thought that he would despair over her like this. Or for a black hole to whirl and grow and swallow her whole-

But no-

That's not what she wants. She can't allow herself to fall into that trap.

 _Breathe. Survive. Will can shape your universe._

She's run the scenarios already in her head, has spent endless nights scheming and theorizing. It borders on insanity, the futile and erratic way her thoughts claw their way back to the subject. Her mind is set on self-preservation, on survival, but _something_ in her aches for the agony of false hope, the torment of her circular thoughts. It doesn't matter, in the end. There is nothing she can do to help Flevance, nothing can she do to help her parents, nothing she can do to help Law, nothing she can do to set aside the thoughts that bombard her in the dead of night.

Not until the nightmares of her future have passed.

The knowledge aches. Of course, it does, it always has. But now… Now she has been slapped with a small dose of reality. Law, sheltered and young, has not yet faced heartbreak. He has not met any kind of genuine hardship, aside from his social ineptness. The thought that he would react so vehemently to her temporarily moving away like _this-_ it rips an ugly laugh from her before she can muffle it with her pillow.

Oh, _oh_ , there is so much more left in store for Law. The knowledge burns. Life is not done with him, hasn't even _begun_ to pull out the earth-shaking revelations, upheavals, tragedies so _shattering_ that the world is forever tinged in a gray monotone. There is so much left of him for the world to _break_ , slowly crushing pieces of his heart and soul until he's nothing but a spider web of cracks and fractures. Law isn't ready for this, knows this intrinsically. He is too soft and young. But who _would_ be ready? She can't even imagine how he'll react for what is yet to come, and her gut twists at the mere thought.

( Maybe one day he'll look in the mirror and recognize the shade that hallows his eyes, think back to his younger sister, and wonder _what_ she had lost to acquire such a consuming sorrow at this age.

the answer: everything, nothing-

yet. )

Hands drag down her face. There is nothing she can do. _There is nothing she can do_.

Flevence's tragedy is set in stone. Everyone is going to die: fact. She can't change that, she can't undo what has already been in motion for a century: fact. The World Government has already counted them as lost causes, or at the very least believes that they aren't worth saving. Attempting to bring her knowledge to the larger masses would likely lead to death, regardless. Any small amount of mercy at this stage could lead to life-altering results, none of which she (her plan) can afford. Law's ( _Lami's_ ) only chance for survival past the age of thirteen is for him to join the Donquixote pirates, for him to find the devil fruit that will cut away the built-up poison in his body. For this to happen-

For this to happen-

( _breathein_ breatheout)

On and on the record plays, though she does not regret.

.

.

The day of her departure is bright and clear.

"Don't worry," Her father says as he collects her things, "Your mother is picking Law up from school and will meet us there." He readjusts the strap of her bag and turns to Lami with a worried frown, "Are you sure that this is all you want to take with you? You'll be gone all year…"

Honestly, she doesn't want to risk any further exposure. If amber lead is poisonous upon being exposed to air then anything could be a contagion, right? Anything containing amber lead could lead to her condition worsening and she _knows_ that most products made in Flevance have some of the mineral built-in. Mostly for aesthetics, of course. Regardless, it's not as though she has any particular attachment to many of her belongings. She knows that everything she has now will be taken away from her at some point in time and has forced herself into a minimalist lifestyle in hopes of tempering future heartache.

Better to cut her losses short. So long as she has money and her notebooks she should be... fine.

"The school has uniforms and a library. They'll feed us and house us..." Lami says instead, staring up at her father with doe eyes. "What else could I need?"

Properly endeared by her behaviour, her father laughs and gestures for her to get moving with a playful wave of his hand. "Alright, alright. But if you need anything just remember to let us know. Briar North isn't too far away, and if you ever get homesick it won't be too much of a hassle for us to come and see you."

Lami offers her father a sad sort of smile. Nothing she can offer him in response will satisfy or make him happy.

She's momentarily startled when her father takes her hand, and when she looks up he's staring at her with soft fondness. Lami flexes her fingers but doesn't pull them away. Upon her apparent approval, he gently tugs her along the sidewalk

Affection is… difficult.

There's not much she remembers from her time _before_ Lami, not anymore, but. She thinks that she wasn't as scared back then, wasn't as careful with how she offers her affection. Her parents are busy people so it's not typically a concern for her. But there are moments where she freezes when she _shouldn't_ , hugs too sudden and kisses given too freely. She can't help but feel lost when her parents give her their devotion, mind sent into an unrelenting spiral. She doesn't deserve it, their love, handles Law's quiet affection much easier.

(easier to ignore, easier to turn a blind eye to.

she loves them all, but- a small part of her thinks:

perhaps she should acknowledge the surprise she has felt over law's continued feelings of betrayal over her departure. inspect the source of her constant shying away from affection. analyze why she had never thought that law might _care_ for her in a way that would result in such a passionate reaction. she has always thought his adoration over her was _cute_ but had she ever believed him to _love_ her? had she ever viewed him as a human being with emotions felt for _her_? why is it that she has discounted the feelings of her family, continuously dismissing them and pushing them away? does she truly believe that because she is a _changeling_ that her family views her with the same monotonous static she feels for herself?

does she honestly think that pushing them away now will do anything to stop her future heartaches?

oh, but it's scary to traverse into the bottomless pit of one's psyche when it's so much easier to agonize over another. )

It's… probably best not to think about it in the light of day, she thinks.

"Don't worry." her father says. He must have noted her subdued behaviour, if the softness of his voice gives any indication, "Everything is going to be fine."

Confidence seeps through his tone, fingers tightening around her own. Dread pools in her gut.

 _He is going to die in a few years._

"Tell me about Alabasta." She says, instead, eager to change the subject. The rest of their walk is spent with her listening to him ramble about the climate, the culture, the politics of the faraway kingdom. Lami throws herself into the topic, ignores the things better thought about in the dead of night when no one is around to witness.

.

.

"They're late.." Her father says, tapping at his watch with ill-contained worry. When he catches her stare he fiddles with his glasses (an obvious nervous tick) and smiles, "I'm sure that they will be here at any moment."

"...Right."

The boat leaves in ten minutes.

They spend a long moment in silence, father staring at the road leading to the docks while Lami stares out to the sea. To her freedom. To clean air. Months of _waiting_ lead up to this moment and her hands shake with anticipation, heart thundering in her chest. Soon, soon, _soon._

Lami almost laughs. She had never thought herself as a sea goer, could never fathom herself as someone who would wait with bated breath to sail the ocean blue to her freedom. It's the most pirate-like behaviour she has ever exhibited in herself and she almost grins. Almost. There is still so much left for her to do, so many more obstacles for her to crawl over. Celebrations should be rewarded when she is thirteen and _alive_.

There's no what-if's allowed in this discussion; she _will_ get there. But she shouldn't tempt fate by celebrating too early.

Her father is pacing now, quietly muttering under his breath. A look is spared in her direction before he gives her a smile that is too stiff to be genuine. "I- I'll be right back. Stay right here, okay? I'm going to go call your mother."

Lami barely has the time to nod before he is backpedaling towards one of the buildings on the dock. Staring after him, a quiet somberness falls over her. He's going to be so disappointed when they don't show up.

True to form, her father comes out of the building looking rather downtrodden. He runs his hands through his hair as he approaches, and kneels in front of her. "I've got some bad news kiddo… Law.. isn't feeling too good, so it's just going to be me seeing you off. But no worries! I'm sure you'll have fun on your adventure, and I'll make sure that your mother and brother write to you as often as possible"

Lies don't suit her father, she thinks, as she listens to him ramble. Though, he handles it smoothly. He is a doctor, she supposes, so he must be quite used to relaying bad news. Whatever the case, Lami can't say she is all too surprised. She had little faith that Law would show up to see her off in the first place. That doesn't mean she isn't disappointed, however, and she merely gives her father a subdued smile in response.

Ruffling her hair, he stands up. "Alright! Let's get you settled before they take off without you!"

More for her father's benefit than her own, Lami gives a loud groan and tugs at his arm, "Nooo!"

"Better get moving then, kid!"

.

.

Goodbyes are rough, she realizes.

Once her bag is settled in her temporary cabin on the ship there is nothing left to do but give their farewells. There is an awkward moment where neither knows what to do, standing on the dock of the ship. Then, in a flurry of movement, her father holds her close and Lami pretends like she doesn't feel him gently shaking. She doesn't know why— doesn't _want to_. Some things are better left alone, she thinks, as she wraps her arms around his neck.

" _I'm sorry_." He whispers thickly, arms tightening around her. "I wish I could come with you- that your mother was here-"

"It's okay. You have people to fix." Her father tries _so hard_ to be both a good doctor and a good father, she thinks. "You're trying your best. That's what matters."

"Smart girl," He says thickly, though he doesn't sound like he has the same confidence in her words as she does.

They stand there for a few moments, leaning against each other until the captain of the ship yells over the patio, "Hate to ruin a family moment but we're heading out!"

"Guess that's our signal to part… I love you, Lami. Be safe and take care."

But he doesn't let go.

"I-. Bye, dad." She murmurs, unsure what else to say. "I'll write to you, okay?"

When he pulls back his smile is large and his eyes are wet, "I look forward to each and every one."

Lami gives a small wave as he gets off the ship, feeling slightly displaced and unaware of where she is. She stands at the edge of the deck watching as the boat pulls away from the dock, swaying quietly from side to side to the rhythm of the waves that slap against the hull. Waving at him once again when he raises a hand in farewell, she watches and waits until the shore is a small spec in the distance.

"Don't worry kid," The captain says, patting the ledge beside her, "You'll be back in no time."

Goodbyes are rough, but that sounds less like a promise and more like a threat.

.

.

That night she lay in her cabin, too busy sick and vomiting into a barrel to be sad.

.

.

"Oh, there's our little princess!" The captain exclaims the next day when she arrives in the kitchen for dinner, "Sea not treating you well, then? Ha! Give it time."

Just listening to the woman's loud voice makes her stomach queasy and thinks that it might not be best to think about the sea or its waves or the rocking motion of the boat-

Lami's face turns a little green, slapping a hand onto the nearest surface to lean on while she swallows down the bile that threatens to creep up her throat. This is not what she had anticipated when she had planned for this trip, had not taken _seasickness_ into account when envisioning her escape from Flevance. It certainly makes the trip a little less endearing, now that the rose-coloured glasses have been taken off and she has been exposed to the realities of nausea and latrines.

"Don't worry, kid. You'll get used to it!" One of the crewmates assures her, though his laughter betrays his amusement towards her ailment. "Grab some grub and water, that'll fix ya right up."

"Or send her straight back below deck!" Another chirps.

Their lack of empathy for her plight rubs her the wrong way, but she begrudgingly accepts the food that is offered to her from the cook. She sits apart from the crew or other passengers and settles in a corner where she can watch everyone. Having been in her cabin all night, Lami can't say that she has gotten a read on anyone on board, but her general impression is that it's not unsafe. Or, at the very least, it doesn't appear to be run by pirates… Even if they laugh in the face of her ailment.

Staring at her food, Lami is hit with the sudden realization that _this_ will be her first meal outside of Flevance. Her first meal without fear of further contamination.

Bread and beans.

It could almost make her cry, inspecting the silver cutlery. No more amber lead, just... Regular ole silver that probably won't kill her in the future.

"It's not gonna poison yeah if that's what you're thinkin'."

Lami startles when she realizes that the captain has settled into the seat across from her, but otherwise just stares. The words hit too close to home, and she struggles to come up with something to say. In all honesty, the woman doesn't look like a captain. With her long red hair and manicured nails, she looks better suited for anything other than seafaring. But then again she's not a marine _or_ a pirate, so Lami supposes that _anyone_ can be a "captain" so long as they own a ship. However, with Dolflamingo's pirates and the like floating around, she isn't sure why anyone would be pleasure cruising across the North Blue. Or how they manage to do so without getting plundered and robbed regularly.

"I.. No, that's not.." Lami murmurs, mind trying to come up with a valid reason for her hesitation.

"Don't worry, princess." The captain says with a large smile, "not food you're used to, right?"

Lami, thankful for the excuse, simply nods.

Golden eyes examine her for a long moment, and Lami nervously rips apart her bread and dips it in the beans. She doesn't understand the woman's reasoning for sitting with her, and she looks like she is _expecting_ something. But. Whatever, Lami isn't here to appease the expectations of random people and focuses back on her meal. After a few bites, the captain gives a soft huff of amusement.

"Shy little thing, aren't you?" She muses and then extends a hand. "The name's Barlow, though you can call me Captain."

Lami is already calling her captain, but she supposes it doesn't matter. "I'm... Lami." She reaches out and gives Barlow a quick handshake, before ducking her head to return to her meal.

"Alright, alright, I can tell when I'm not wanted," Barlow says with a loud laugh, getting up from her seat. She reaches over and ruffles Lami's hair with exaggeration, "Don't be scared to come up to the desk, none of us are going to bite!"

Lami grumbles and watches as Barlow and her men exit the dining room with a critical eye.

.

.

The trip to Briar North is only two days, and Lami spends most of that time reading in her cabin.

 _Geography of the North Blue_ has been her most recent conquest for knowledge, reading about the North Blue's specific climate and oceanography after having read _The Geology of the North Blue_. The titles are as dry as the content of the books themselves, but she figures that it'll be useful knowledge in the future even if the books are a decade old and no doubt need to be updated. It's the price of information, however. Sometimes you just have to soak in dull passages so you can stumble across an interesting piece.

Occasionally one of the crew members will come by to make sure that she is doing alright before retreating to their jobs. She appreciates the sentiment, but Lami is unused to the way they treat her-

Like a child.

Her parents have always viewed her as a child, of course, but there is freedom in their management with her. They think her a genius and as such, they don't mince their words or hold her back from any of her knowledge-seeking. Encouraged the behaviour. Lami's maturity is praised, but with the underlying belief that there is plenty more for her to learn from life and lecture.

It's not as stifling as it is on the boat. _Kid, princess_ , they call her, like it's an endearment instead of an insult.

Perhaps it's an omen for Briar North, she thinks. Lami doubts that an all-girls boarding school will be any better, though she tells herself not to complain. Flevance promises an inevitable death, an early onset of amber lead poisoning. Pompous girls and strict rules are nothing in comparison.

.

.

( the only time lami ventures above deck is when it is hours past twilight. the moon's light softens the features of the expensive wood, giving the ship a fairytale-like appearance. it's beautiful, awe-inspiring.

she allows herself a moment to simply _breathe_ -

breathe in unpolluted air. breathe without the fear that _this_ will make her sick, that _this_ will kill her, that _this_ will be what tips the balance of whether she will have enough time to execute her plan.

and for this moment, the _relief_ that floods through her is the greatest burden she has ever felt. tears threaten to fall and she has to muffle her mouth to keep the sob tucked in her throat, hands, and body shaking in the extreme effort to keep the _relief_ inside of her. fear of it bubbling out, for others to see her like this, she curls up into a ball with her back against the sides of the ship.

lami _breathes_ and _breathes_. never has anything tasted so sweet. )

.

.

By the time the ship docks at Briar North, Lami is practically buzzing to get off the boat.

A nearby crew member laughs when she emerges from below deck with her bag in tow, shouting out a light-hearted, "Lookie here, princess finally sees the light of day! Guess she won't be a permanent fissure to our boat after all."

Laughs all around, though Lami merely gives a tired sigh and a half-lidded stare. She wishes they would stop making fun of her. For all the complaints about them treating her like a child, it doesn't change the fact that she _is_ physically a child, and that people shouldn't just… make fun of children. It's inherently wrong.

"Now, now." Barlow says, waving her hands as if to say _ease off_ , "Geoff, Parkland; go collect some food and water from port. I'll be dropping off princess here, though I should be back in an hour."

Confirmations are given.

Ushered off the boat, Lami has a moment of bliss as she takes inland. Pure, unpoisoned land that doesn't sway at every moment! Closing her eyes, she breathes in and exhales.

"Take it in while you can, princess," Barlow warns, already walking away from the dock. "This is the last bout of freedom you're gonna taste for awhile. All that's waiting for you behind these pristine pink walls are teachers, books, and prissy little girls with rich daddy's who will inevitably sell them off to the highest bidder. You'll be lucky if they let you outside to play a little lacrosse or handball."

Lami couldn't ask for anything better.

Then again, her standards are slightly skewed. Anything that _doesn't_ result in her death is, by her accounts, great.

"I like books. And teachers." Lami says, instead, hurrying to catch up to Barlow's brisk pace and choosing to ignore the latter part of her statement. "Mostly books, though, less so teachers."

The captain scoffs and it's not a pretty sound. "With parents like yours, that's all but expected of you."

It sounds like a backhanded compliment but Lami says, "Thank you" anyway and the rest of their walk is spent with a stiff silence while Lami tries to keep up.

It doesn't take too long for the school to come into view: Briar North is by no means a large island, having been purchased with the sole purpose of being the only form of civilization. (Sans the docks, evidently.) So not to distract the girls, the pamphlet had said.

Lami gaps quietly at the large building: beautiful, in the way that old Victorian buildings were. Long stain glass windows adorn the brick walls, four towers marking the corners of the massive structure. She startles when she realizes that she has stopped walking and hustles to catch up to Barlow, who has already started to open the dark wooden door.

Entering through the large arched doorway, Lami takes in the bustling interior: a large room, filled to the brim with children and adults. While busy appreciating the architecture of the room, she doesn't notice Barlow's impatience until she starts to drag Lami into a side office. Giving the red-headed woman an annoyed stare, Lami peers around the captain and idly listens as Barlow and the secretary talk.

"Akane! It's been so long, it's _wo~nderful_ to see you!" The woman at the desk chirps, tone dripping with honey.

It's so unbelievable fake, and Barlow gives a sharp laugh. "Can't say I'm glad to be back, Ruth, but luckily enough I'm just here to drop this kid off. I'll be out of your hide in no time."

Ruth clicks her tongue disapprovingly, "Oh, why do you always have to be so _so~ur_ all the time, Akane?" Leaning over the desk to get a look at Lami she says, " _Oo~h_ , who do we have here? Excited to start your path to excellence?"

"Trafalgar Lami…" She introduces herself, feeling put off by the woman's behaviour. "I'm... excited."

"Don't look so down, sweet cheeks! St. _Mo~nroe's_ will be home in _no~o_ time!"

"Oh, give her a break." Barlow scoffs, "She's just shy."

"Sounds like someone I used to know!" Ruth says sweetly, and Barlow sneers.

"Well. That's all I have the energy to do today-"

"You've _o~only_ been here for about thirty seconds!"

"Thirty seconds too much, if you ask me." The captain claps, "See ya around, kid. Good luck in this prison."

And just like that, Barlow leaves.

Lami blinks, having expected the woman to at least wait until registration was done.

"What a bitter woman," Ruth remarks with a wistful sigh, staring off after the captain. After a moment she looks back to Lami and asks, " _So~o_ , do you have your papers?"

.

.

Lami's first night is spent in a near-empty room, moonlight filtering in through the windows. Having brought little belongings of her own, her walls lay bare and the only furniture that adorns her room is the bed, a desk, and a drawer. Her bag sits at the end of her bed, packed, and her uniforms sit folded on the desk. The floor creaks, and she's pretty sure she can hear mice scratching in the walls. At least there are no bugs- it had been the first thing for her to do upon entering the room.

She can hear excited girls scurrying down the hallways, bouncing around in the room above hers, and fooling around in the room next to her. There's a distance screech of laughter and a series of giggling _shhhs_ that follow.

It's... odd, being in such a busy place. Her own house was very subdued. Law had always been a quiet neighbour, reading under candlelight until their parents had to blow it out…

 _Law..._

Rolling over in her bed, Lami shuts her eyes.

Best not let her thoughts linger for too long, and she begs for sleep to drag her into unconsciousness.

.

.

* * *

 **hey look.. i'm back.**

 **started using my drawing tablet again and drew some future!lami art, which inspired a pinterest board, which inspired.. this.**

 **i'm not looking forward to the next chapter, to be honest. the prospect of writing a board school setting killed my vibe when trying to start this up last year, so next chapter will likely have a bunch of timeskips so i can get to the meat of the story. if lami comes off as whiny, repetitive and depressive, well. yeah. that's the point.**

 **thank you all for your continued support! if things go well, i hope to brush up the first two chapters and have chapter 3 out by next week.**

 **[date: 2O19/O6/2O] [word count: 6O98]**


	4. excellence

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O3.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _excellence._

* * *

The following weeks pass by like molasses.

It's not as though Lami anticipated her time at boarding school to be smooth sailing; if anything she expected insults, condescending teachers, and a strict set of ridiculous rules. The brochure itself had promised to make all the children into posh, _excellent_ young ladies; it reeks of nobility and those striving to throw their kids into the social ladder of sovereignty while shrugging off the responsibilities of raising a child (or having a governess) as they sip on cocktails and kiss each other's feet.

Of her assumptions, only the ridiculous set of rules has proven to have merits, however.

The first couple of days had breezed past her as she attempted to acclimate with the busy and strict schedule dictated by her teachers, along with exploring the school and flipping through her workbooks for the year.

At first glance, the school had looked like one large and sprawling building, maybe three of four stories in height. However, Lami found that the structure is that of six buildings, connected in a rectangle by open-windowed hallways. The hollow center hosts a large courtyard where benches lined the windows of the dining hall and a student-run garden occupying one of the corners. The four tall towers that Lami had first seen were explained to be the student dorms- and was where she spent most of her time during her first week.

But once attuned to the pace of the St. Monroe lifestyle... Lami's interests dwindled and the hours inched forward with excruciating languish.

Boredom is an expectation, especially given how rudimentary schoolwork for _children_ is. As _she_ is.. technically not a child, though also not an adult, Lami has little hope for mental stimulation from the material taught at St. Monroe's.

But... who would have known that it would be the main contender for her grief at St. Monroes? Lami certainly had not anticipated the boredom to hit so soon.

After a year of freedom with her parent's tutelage, the sudden rigidity of St. Monroe's is.. startling.

It's not that they treat her like a child, as she had expected. No, in fact, they _anticipate_ that the children have a mark of maturity (with mixed results, obviously, given the nobility) and educate with the intention of not babying their students.

What throws Lami off about St. Monroe's is the lack of one on one teaching; everyone is taught together or not at all. Independent studies or time for students to learn on their own are practically nonexistent to those in the younger bracket of the school. The library is inaccessible to the younger students due to past experiences of children defacing the books and taking advantage of time dictated towards the library to play around. Their daily time schedules are planned by the hour, which yields little room for Lami and her peers to have their own choice of activities.

The lack of agency given to the students proves to be suffocating, leaving her twitching and aching to run out of the classroom and hole up in the library. Or, hell, run around the island for a lap or two to relieve the restless electricity buzzing through her veins. Lami struggles to focus on the basic concepts taught in class- subjects she has known for _years_ \- and is instead distracted by her pent up energy and utter lack of interest in benign and easy concepts.

Or course, there are topics that Lami has little knowledge of. The basics of what is culturally acceptable by high-class ladies in the North Blue, some sprinklings of history, flora and fauna, some explanations of the four seas.

However new content is absorbed into her brain without much hassle, leaving her starving for _more_.

 _She_ doesn't remember being especially intelligent or academic in her past life- or, at the very least, was by no means a genius. Lami, or whoever cumulation the past and present has created, picks up information with the same sort of accuracy that Law does. She wonders if this is a byproduct of her genetics in this world or if it simply a symptom of her desperation for survival; whether it be in surviving the tragedies of Flevance, or stimulation in an environment barren of free-will or excitement...

It could very well be both. Even still, the thought gives her.. something positive to ponder in the dead of night. Something to look forward to, once she gets herself to a place where she can further stretch out the boundaries of her intellect.

Aside from the weariness that weighs on her; the ache in her bones for independence and individuality- boarding school is… alright.

Children will be children. None of the other girls are particularly cruel to her, but none of them showcase the same sort of familiarity or friendliness that they show each other. It's not completely because of her upbringing; she's the daughter of two well-accomplished doctors, one heralded as The Best doctor in _Flevance_ , the beautiful city of white. _That_ holds some sort of respect and pedigree that appeals to the eyes of five-year-olds, though she is still rather low on the totem pole of social rankings in comparison to the children that boast being the nieces of kings.

However, what minuscule of reputation her parents might afford to her is gone to waste. Lami's reserved behaviour isn't well suited to the likes of children who have been given nearly everything in life. Their wide-eyed attempts to gush over how beautiful Flevance is _said_ to be is met with exasperation and veiled hostility. While much more accommodating in talking about her parents and their occupation, Lami observes that her vernacular and bluntness intimidates or insults the other children.

She doesn't hold any resentment for the inevitable ostracization. If anything, it makes things easier for her. The other girls in her class aren't as snobby as she had initially expected, but it doesn't change the fact that they are not at the same intellectual level as her. To them, she is weird; eerie; an _oddity_. She doesn't expect any of them to understand.

(none of them are law-)

Luckily enough, students are separated by age bracket.. for obvious reasons. Classes are separated in buildings by ages 5-11 and 12-17, facing each other in the courtyard; the dining hall and main building are the only connecting points. The dorms are sectioned off similarly; 5-8 to the direct left of the main building, 9-11 at the corner between the younger bracket classroom and the dining hall, 12-14 at the corner between the dining hall and the older age bracket classrooms, and 15-17 between their classrooms and the main building.

St. Monroe's has a fairly strict no-bullying clause- no _lady_ should resort to such pedestrian means, after all. Although not taught, Lami suspects that trickery and cunning social politics are free game- particularly in regards to the older students pushing their later teens. Nothing is a crime if you don't get caught. None of the girls in the younger bracket are at the age where rebellion and superiority go hand in hand, thankfully, and most are simply spoilt and arrogant. Lami's sure that this will be quick to change, given the fishbowl environment of St. Monroes. The girls will learn and adapt to the politics of the school, shave off parts of themselves to fit in better to the cutthroat realities of high-class women.

But- well, Lami doesn't plan on sticking around long enough to reach that point of useless social politics.

.

.

Lami receives her first letter from her father five days after arriving on Briar North.

She almost laughs when the secretary, Ruth, hands her the letter. Of course, her father would send her mail as soon as humanly possible. Thanking the older woman, Lami scurries through the halls to her room and gathers her supplies. Lami puts on a pair of gloves and a medical mask before she opens up the letter.

(better safe than sorry)

 _Dear Lami,_

 _Though the weather is clear, my world is dark and stormy without you by my side! It has_

 _only been a week and already I find myself missing you dearly. Are you ready to come home yet? Haha! That is a joke, I assure you._

 _I hope that St. Monroe's is treating you well. How are your classes? I know that you were quite worried, though you tried your best to hide it. But a father knows best, and I could sniff out your worries from a mile away! If need be I'm sure it can be arranged for you to skip to a grade more suited for your intellect, though I understand why such a suggestion might not appeal in an environment like this._

 _Have you made any friends? Do you have any interesting stories you would like to share? I am more than open to hearing all about your schooling experience!_

 _Your mother will be sending a letter shortly, but I fret that I have lost Law's letter to you! I will make sure that he writes up a new one for you, sometime in the near future! He misses you dearly, I promise._

 _I know you said you didn't want to bring anything else along with you, but I couldn't help but send this photo along with this letter! Do you remember when we took this? Your mother was quite exasperated that I let Law and you get ice cream all over yourselves! Though I'm certain you can read from your mother's expression, haha. When you are back for the break we_ _ **must**_ _attend a festival! As your father, I am ordering a mandatory family event!_

 _I wish I could give you a hug, but alas, as I am bound by paper I will simply have to make do with this: I love you. Please take care, and enjoy your time abroad!_

 _Love, Dad._

Turning over the photo in her hand, Lami heaves a quiet sigh. She remembers when the photo was taken quite clearly: during a festival, Lami and Law had ice cream coating their chin and shirts due to how fast it melted. In the photo, their mother is caught between scolding and laughing at them while their father's face grins from the corner of the scene while taking the picture.

This photo was taken before Lami had been approved to go to St. Monroe's; before Law stopped talking to her. She does not doubt that her father is lying about the misplaced letter. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, she suspects, but doesn't understand why he keeps trying to cover up Law's behaviour like this.

Oh well.

Taking out a piece of paper and a quill, she begins writing out a letter in response; how she is doing well, that the girls are nicer than expected, the subjects are rather rudimentary for her tastes but she doesn't want to be a hassle. Maybe she will sneak into the library, she jokes. She would love to go to a festival, and that she hears that the fireworks festival on North Shore island are notorious. She finishes the letter off by expressing her love for him, her mother, and her brother. It's a short but efficient letter, and she hopes that it is enough to satisfy her father.

.

.

Although Lami typically keeps to herself, there are times where she'll sit down with one of the other girl's and ask about her hometown; what it's like, the food, the people, the climate, the economy-

For the most part, the girls are happy to ramble about their homes. Lami takes their words with a grain of salt; the other girl's worldviews are notably small, comments inarticulate and shallow. Usually, there isn't much to gain from the conversation, as the girls typically only talk about their households- who are almost entirely higher class individuals and certainly cannot be used as standard examples of the lifestyles on said islands. Despite this, she can usually grasp a general idea of what the reigning seat of power is like through their second-hand observations. Anything pertaining to the logistics of the islands or their main exports flies over their heads, however, but-

Lami, in turn, is content enough to... simply listen. Gleans whatever grains of knowledge she can from the girls, tucking the information away for later contemplation and understanding of the North Blue's environment and social climate. Even if the talk is short and she gathers nothing from it, watching the children brighten and get more excited while they talk is.. almost as satisfying.

More than once Lami ends up awkwardly having to console a classmate once the homesickness starts to set in with tears streaming down their rosy cheeks.

Perhaps it's not kind of Lami to poke at the sore spots of the other girls, but she thinks that they appreciate the chance to rant and babble about the places that they love. And though their sorrow upon missing their families rubs on Lami the wrong way, it's... profitable for her to know her limitations and do her best to work around them.

She has always privately joked about _Law's_ social ineptitude, but it'd never occurred to Lami that _she_ is no better.

Looking back, it's almost laughable. Of course, she's awful at social situations. Of course, she's awful at communicating. How could she ever think otherwise? Lami can think of a dozen examples where her social ineptness has caused her more trouble than good. However, it isn't until she interacts with girls her own age, watches them cry while struggling to empathize and console, that she understands the weight of her deviance. Homesickness doesn't pool in her gut the same way, words don't come to her mouth as easily, emotions stagnant but stuck in a pendulum swing of static and hysterics. But always quiet, always withdrawn.

Self-realization hitting, Lami analyzes her shortcomings and... attempts to improve on her incompetence.

Consoling little girls might not be a skill that dictates whether or not she survives past age twelve, but through trial and error she figures out that sometimes the best thing you can do for another is to simply _listen_ and offer a hug.

.

.

Slowly but surely the other girls in her age bracket warm up to her; greeting her in the mornings, walking with her to and from breakfast and dinner, sharing little looks that say _we have a secret_.

It's still painfully obvious that Lami does not belong in this setting, but.

Life becomes… easier at Briar North.

.

.

 _Dear Law._

 _I know that I hurt you and that you probably don't want to talk to me._

 _But I just wanted- no, needed, to let you know that... I love you._

 _I miss you._

 _Briar North is fine, but I miss having you by my side. Is that selfish?_

 _Lots of love, Lami._

.

.

( he doesn't respond, but she doesn't expect him to. )

.

.

The broken record of her nighttime thoughts never stop or pause.

Yet without the constant reminders of what life has in store, Lami finds herself… relaxing in the tiniest degree.

Food is easier to eat, no longer feeling like she has to convince herself to take every bite, every sip. _Breathing_ is easier without the worries that suffocate her. Exercise is gladly accepted and Lami finds herself joining an intramurals group where she can run and play without worry that it'll ruin her health.

The anxieties of worsening her condition are kept at bay by the agitation caused by the lack of stimuli. The restlessness that aches in her bones, the _hunger_ she feels for a good book- or _anything_ that can keep her interest for longer than ten minutes. Deconstructing newspapers only works for so long, despite her growing collection of bounty posters and scrapbooks filled with interesting pieces of articles. But it's not enough- wanting, no _needing_ , something more _substantial_ and imperative than articles riddled with the World Government's influences and blatant propaganda.

And though these feelings distract her, it doesn't stop the nighttime thoughts. Doesn't change what is going to happen to Flevance, to her family, to Law, to Lami.

Bitterness still clings to her waking thoughts, eyeing the children that parade around her. Their parents are rich influencers, some of whom hold seats of nobility- people who could _do something_ about the tragedies of the world (of Flevence). Though none of the girls in the school are Celestial Dragons, Lami can't help but watch them with quiet contempt. The rich profit off of the poor, and while the girls in her grade are still disillusioned to the world, she knows that one day they too will sit pretty in their grand estates playing mind games with the other ladies while children weep and bleed on the streets below them.

Maybe it's a generalization, maybe she's so resentful towards the nobility of her own country that it bleeds into her logic; it doesn't change the fact that there is something inherently _unfair_ with how the world is run, how easily monarchies are taken advantage of when given no repercussions by those who should be doling out punishment to those _worthy_ of it. How schools like _this_ exist for raising the rich to be the ruthless _excellent_ girls that will twirl their hair while dictating whether or not to increase taxes.

The worries that plague her mind don't go away, she doubts they will for some time: but something in her _cements_ during her time at Briar North.

.

.

Six months into the school year and her uniform is already getting too small, she observes one morning while inspecting herself in the mirror.

Picking at the hem of her sweater vest, she contemplates the pros and cons of requesting a new set of button-up tops and vests. The skirt _should_ be fine, at least for a little while, as it's only _just_ skimming above her knee. But the garments adorning her torso are notably starting to stretch at the shoulders and are inching up her wrist and waist.

Her father's past comments about how _pale_ Lami and Law were had all but been ignored by Lami, believing his concerns to be from that of a parent. However, after months of nourishment at St. Monroes, she's starting to realize the validity of his statement. Never had she noticed how... _thin_ she'd been, even despite the baby fat that clung to her bones. Now there is _colour_ to her cheeks and weight added to her slim structure and she _wonders_ -

Logically, she knows that the amber lead poisoning has nothing to do with any of this.

( not yet, at least. )

To be honest, it hadn't been the smartest choice of action to withhold from eating in Flevance... to the degree that she had. _Fearing_ that each bite would inch her a little closer to death, accumulating more and more to the lead already weighing down her body. But, in retrospect, _not eating_ wouldn't help her in the grand scheme. It's with a feeling of unease that she wonders if her forced diet aided in a poorer constitution. Has abstaining from eating during her time in Flevance caused her to become more susceptible to the disease? Or has it garnered her more time to implement her plans?

Lami sighs while dragging a hand down her face.

Briar North is supposed to be a quick getaway from the tribulation of Flevance. Instead, she finds the closed walls stifling and even more difficult to escape her own head. How is she to ease her mind when the schoolwork offers her no challenge, the girls are all _children_ , and there's little chance to explore or let herself loose in any capacity?

 _It's better than Flevance_ , she reminds herself. Complaining will get her nowhere, only sink her further into the unforgiving pit of self- _pit_ y.

Straightening out her vest, Lami stares herself in the eyes and tilts her chin up. She _will_ make the best of this opportunity. She _will_ take what the world throws at her and _make_ something from it. She _will_ crawl through the tragedies stitched into her destiny, and come out winning. Alive. _Strong_.

Survival relies on those ostentatious enough to make demands of the universe. Where better to learn how to do so than by observing and adapting to the filthy rich youth that litter the halls of Briar North?

.

.

After seven months of playing the little school girl, Lami concocts a plan to ease the boredom that has haunted her day and night.

Admittedly, it's an awfully simple plan, that goes ridiculously smoothly.

"My uniform is too small." Lami complains in a soft tone, clothing bundled in her arms, "Can I get a new one?"

"Of _co~ourse_ you can, little lady!" Ruth says with a chirp, reaching over her desk to grab her uniforms, "Give me a moment, dear. What are you, a six? Yup. I'll be back in no time. Sit tight!"

With that the secretary goes into the room behind the desk, muttering to herself absently. Lami waits a moment, looks around to make sure that no one is watching, and sneaks behind the half-door.

Lami has observed the secretaries desk for some time now: for the most part, Ruth simply does paperwork, deals with mail, and hands out visitor passes. _But_ \- she is also in charge of the extra _keys_ for the school. Ruth, from what Lami has gathered, has a _terrible_ habit of leaving the extra key cabinet unlocked. Terrible, but also _awfully convenient_.

Having seen the opportunity some time ago, Lami has bide her time wisely.

Opening the cabinet door, Lami takes one of the keys labelled as the _Library_ and shoves it up her sleeve. She then slides a false key made of modeling dough that has been painted a dull gold colour and places it in the back of the _Library_ section of the cabinet case. She made the false key in class weeks ago, their art teacher praising Lami for the detailed markings of the teeth. It's not a perfect copy, seeing the library keys now, but she doesn't need a perfect copy so long as the decoy can distract the secretary long enough to absolve Lami of blame.

This world doesn't have access to video cameras in the same way that her old world had and with no Den Den Mushi in sight she considers this an easy win.

When Ruth returns with a few sets of new uniforms, Lami is waiting patiently in one of the chairs situated by the doorway.

"I've got your uniforms right here." Ruth slides them onto the desk and gives her a little wink, "Not up to anything _sneaky_ are we?"

Something cold plummets to the bottom of her stomach, but she blinks up at Ruth with her best impression of casual confusion as she gathers her new clothes, "..no?"

Ruth giggles, and for a horrid second Lami thinks she's been _caught_.

"Course not, I'm just _jo~oking_." Ruth laughs again, and it puts Lami at ease. "I added something real special for yeah; the old winter uniform! Not a big fan of skirts, are yea? I can just tell by looking; we've had our fair share of little ladies just like you. But don't worry dear, if anyone asks about them trousers just tell them that good ole Ruth made a little oopsie."

The secretary winks again and Lami can't help but give the woman a little smile.

.

.

( she doesn't regret stealing the key though; or the consequences that will undoubtedly fall on the secretary should the false key be found. )

.

.

Lami _tries_ to be smart with her newly acquired key.

The library is large and beautiful; the first time Lami set foot in the high-ceiling room with books lining the walls she had nearly _swooned_. It was, quite clearly, love at first sight. In her experience, only the library at Flevance University had a collection as large as the one at St. Monroe's and she nearly salivated at the sight. Lami ached to run her fingers over the bindings of the books, spend hours sitting in the sunlight, getting lost in the information while she filled out her notebooks. Her visit at the time had been short, as it was merely her teacher introducing them to the librarian, but since that moment Lami has vowed that she would return.

Unfortunately, not long afterward, she found out that the younger years aren't allowed library access unless attended by a teacher. Which was, obviously, unacceptable.

Hence Lami stealing the key.

It's only a matter of time before someone notes the missing key, but she suspects that she has _some time_ before suspicions arise.

Alas, it's difficult to be _wise_ when every waking memory of the past six months has greyed with boredom. If anything, Lami should be considered _strong_ for holding on for so long!

Despite her better judgement saying that she should pace herself, that she should be _strategic_ about this opportunity- Lami finds herself sneaking into the library almost every night, tucked away in a corner where her candle isn't as noticeable for those simply passing by.

Hours and hours are spent going through titles and flipping through the pages, eating up every single word available to her. Books about the North Blue, South Blue, even logbooks from merchants who dared to sail to the West Blue. History books pertaining to Flevance, Lvneel, the World Government, and practically every island dotting the North Blue. Fiction novels depicting Marines who solve crimes, bounty hunters that chase after the deadliest men on the sea, ridiculous romance novels that should _definitely_ not be at school but have Lami quietly huffing with amusement. Dissertations about the validity of Devil fruits, theories of the Grand Line and the trustworthiness of the accounts describing unpredictable weather patterns, and _so much more_.

Understandably, most of the books and scrolls are not academic-level. The majority of the collection are children's or teen's books, but every once in a while she will stumble across a document that reads too advanced for teenagers, books that inch closer to heresy than obedience, fiction novels that question morality and explore the gray areas of piracy and the government. She thrills in these small finds, but wonders _who_ is putting these titles within the hundreds and hundreds of books pertaining to math, geography, and (censored) history?

She's not sure if she will ever find out; most of them are dated and old, but she appreciates each and every one of them.

.

.

Lami experiences snow for the first time, in this world, at Briar North.

The brisk breeze that could be felt in the morning, slipping through the cracks of her bedroom window should have been a hint. As should the goldening leaves and the striped briar. The days grew shorter and the nights longer, skies turning grey more often than not.

Years in Flevance's neutral and beautiful weather had spoiled her, made her forget that _seasons_ are still phenomena that occur in some places of the North Blue. Lami had spent so long reading about the observed climates of various regions of the North Blue that it had all but occurred to her that the weather might change in Briar North, despite how close the island is to her own home country.

When the children in her class start squealing about snow, Lami can only blankly stare out the window.

Their art teacher allows them outside the next day, and the girls in her class run rampant through the freshly fallen snow. The task for their class period is to make a snow sculpture, though most of the students squander their time making snow angels and loudly giggling while their cheeks turn rosier and rosier. None of them are bold enough to start a snowball fight, not with the teacher watching, but some of the girls throws tufts of snow in the air and weather the sharp scolding.

Lami sits on the steps of the courtyard, body shivering and hands bright red and tingling from the snow.

Oh, the world is now _white, white, white,_ just like Flevance; just like how she will be in a few measly years, skin and hair a patchwork of amber lead-

A shudder wrecks its way through her body. It's enough to shake off the memories. _Not Flevance_ , she reminds herself dully, staring at _red, red_ hands. She can't feel them, even as she curls her fingers, just numb and tingly. Proof. It's too cold for Flevance, despite the pure _white_ that coats the ground, trees, and roofs of the buildings surrounding the courtyard. There's no snow in Flevance. _There's no snow in Flevance._

Wiping her hands on the knees of her trousers, Lami inhales deeply then out.

( _breathe_ )

 _This is a surefire way to get sick_ , she thinks as she observes the children, though her mind is a million miles away. ( _whitewhitewhite_ ). None of the students are wearing proper snow gear. ( _whitewhitewhite_ ). Mother's lecture about taking proper care of oneself would be ruthless; the risks of the common cold, hypothermia, _frostbite_.

 _But, whatever._

( _breathe_ )

Kids will be kids.

.

.

( time goes on but the chill remains )

.

.

The thought strikes her one afternoon while she's washing her hands in the bathroom;

 _Is my hair lighter than before?_

Fingers brush through the short strands of her hair. Had it been this pale when she arrived in Briar North? Or even as far back as when _she_ first woke up in Lami? Is it a recent development, trick of the eye? The questions hover over her and the longer she thinks about it the more distressing the thought becomes, like a growing raincloud she can't look away from. Lami is painfully aware of the fact that she has no answers. Her fingers start to shake as the implications start to settle, quietly tugging on her locks. Coal-black eyes stare back at her in the mirror, trepidation quaking and threatening to bubble over.

The door opens and a set of older students prance their way in, barely glancing at Lami as they continue to chatter. Their voices sound like static against her ears, laughter echoing emptily.

Mechanically wiping her hands on a hand towel, Lami gives herself a second look in the mirror.

 _Just the lighting_ , she tells herself, jawline firm in her conviction.

.

.

( if lami's nighttime escapades to the library become more obsessive, more intensive, then she certainly won't mention it or entertain the thought.

nor will she mention the notebooks hazardously filled with as much information as possible stuffed underneath her bed. or the english commentaries frantically sprawled around the text. or the booklet's full of english translations; all for the future, for the future.

in her mind, there's a clock; _tick tock tick tock_ -

her time is getting shorter. )

.

.

At eight months Lami is directed towards the President's office.

 _They know_ , is her immediate thought, but logic settles over her mind. How could they know? What is there to know?

If it is about the key; it's been two months, and though there have been a few close calls with teachers roaming the halls, Lami has never encountered anyone during her late-night escapades. Only Ruth could attempt to blame her for the crime, but the woman is absent-minded enough that Lami doubts that she would even know _when_ the key went missing- which was the entire purpose of making a fake key.

There was a slim chance of anyone blaming Lami for the theft.

( If it's about the Amber Lead- well, not even Flevance knows, yet. )

Fiddling with the key hidden underneath her shirt Lami ponders the possibility that _perhaps_ she is too paranoid to be a thief.

Or, at least, a successful one.

Breathing in and then out, Lami calms herself. Worse thing that can happen is expulsion. Which would be unfortunate, but wouldn't be the end of the world. Nowhere near it. Best case scenario she would just go home to Flevance and find another island where she can wait things out until the war is over and done with.

( Worst case scenario she is forced to stay in Flevance, wherein she ultimately dies. )

 _This is the easy part_ , she reminds herself. _Nothing here matters_.

One day she is going to be a fugitive on the run; this is a fact. Her status as a Flevance citizen will be seen as a threat. She needs to _eliminate_ her inherent fear of authority here and _now_ before it is detrimental for her survival.

Pausing outside of the door, she breathes in and out once more. _Be audacious. Be unflinching and impudent._

Chin held high, Lami knocks on the door. There's a long moment where the only thing she can hear is her own heavy heartbeat, before a voice inside says, "Enter."

Steeling herself, she marches.

The office is large, and the paintings that frame the walls are the first to catch her interest. A bust sculpture rests on a platform in the corner, the white of the mineral contrasting starkly with the burgundy walls. She wonders if it's made of Amber Lead. Bookcases stand between the copious number of art pieces, novels, and textbooks wedged on the shelves with numerous stacks sitting on the floor. A large desk is arranged at the center; two chairs in front of it, one behind. Despite the cluttered feeling of the room, the desk itself is clear of any knickknacks or decorations.

A woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun stands by the desk, flipping through a file. She regards Lami with cool eyes, her stare too long to be anything but calculated. The moment passes when the old woman gestures towards one of the chairs.

"Sit." She says, and then snaps the file closed.

 _No_ , is her first instinct, _tell me now_.

However, Lami knows what is expected of her. Knows that if she intends on playing the Long Game she must adhere to adults and their high horses... when it proves useful to her. Swallowing her words, Lami simply nods and settles herself into the chair to the left. It is only then that the President of St. Monroe's rounds the desk and sits down in her own plush throne while placing the file in front of her.

"There is no reason to drag this longer than it needs to." The woman says, opening the file. "You are here to take a placement test."

…

For a moment Lami's mind trips over itself.

She opens her mouth-

"No questions." The woman says curtly, pulling a stack of papers from the file, "You have three hours to do as much of this test as you can. If you cheat or hold yourself back, I will know. Here is a pencil."

Lami stares, not expecting _this_ , but somewhat relieved that she's _probably_ not getting kicked out of school so soon. Taking the pencil, she spins it around in her hand as the President neatly places down four stapled tests in front of her.

"Literature, math, science, history." The president explains, pointing to each. "You may begin."

The woman does not get up, simply watches as Lami reaches out to the nearest stack of papers (math) and flips the cover page over. Examining the first couple of questions, Lami gathers that the test arranges itself from the easiest to the hardest questions. She diligently reads through the booklet and realizes that it goes past the younger bracket school work and into the upper-year work.

 _Oh_. She thinks, understanding suddenly clicking.

When Lami spares the president an uneasy look, the woman merely says, "Don't mind me."

"Right," she mutters.

"No speaking."

Words tickle her tongue but Lami keeps her mouth closed even as the corners pull into a frown. Right, cool. Whatever. Returning to the beginning of the test, she starts the slow and tedious task of answering the first-year questions. Very easy material. Once getting into the second year equations, she pauses and wonders if she should flunk some of the questions on purpose. She dismisses it as soon as the thought arrives; her teachers likely already suspect that her intellect is higher than her peers and it would be too obvious if she started making mistakes at this stage.

It's not until she's in the fifth year material that she purposely makes a mistake, and she is about to move to the next question when the president speaks up.

"What did I say about withholding? Do not think you can fool me."

Lami startles, staring up at the president and her cool, apathetic gaze. She erases the mistake and writes down the correct answer before moving on.

The tests continue like this. Every time Lami attempts to make mistakes the president intercepts, reminding Lami not to play dumb, that her continued efforts is patronizing. Yet somehow she _knows_ when Lami is making a mistake versus when she genuinely doesn't know the answer to a question. While she can't help but wonder _how_ the woman is doing this, feeling oddly vulnerable and ruffled by the experience, most of her is diligently focused on the task at hand. Admittedly, it's the first real challenge she's had to face at St. Monroe's and she revels at the chance to stretch her underutilized mind.

It's only when she is halfway through the final test (literature) that she is told to stop, that time is up. The president says nothing for a long while, only humming on occasion. She had been reading through the completed tests already and has started on the literature segment.

Conflicting emotions swirling inside Lami, torn between excitement and agitation by the President's curt behaviour.

The silence stretches on, until "You may leave."

Lami stares, uncomprehending that she would be put through an impromptu exam only to then be told to leave before explaining the reason _why_. Stubbornness steels her spine, and Lami sits still in her chair while working her jaw.

"Have your ears stopped working?" The President says, thin eyebrow raising. "We do not humour insolence here."

Gritting her teeth, Lami feels as though she is wedged between a rock and a hard place. St Monroe's is convenient; but not necessary. There are barbed comments on her tongue, ready to spill, but she holds them back. She does not need St. Monroe's, but it's the best compromise that Lami has. It's the best place for her to be, without breaking her family's heart.

She leaves the office and ignores the derogatory remark about the trousers of her uniform.

.

.

 _Maybe the president can read minds_ , she theorizes that night while staring intently at her bedroom ceiling.

Only the mice are up at this hour and Lami doesn't have the composure to sneak into the library after, what felt like, the president _staring into her soul_.

But no, it can't be telepathy. If she could read Lami's thoughts, then the head of the school would undoubtedly have asked to reclaim the key that Lami stole.

 _Maybe it's haki_ , she ponders- but, no. That doesn't quite fit the descriptions or examples of haki, most likely _observation haki_ , that she had once written in her notebooks. It's more... likely that the woman is _really good_ at reading people, or was using a devil fruit. But there would be no chance to figure out if this is true or not unless Lami pushed her into the sea to see if she would drown or not.

This is preposterous, obviously, though it makes her wonder if there is a civilization on this earth that had gone through something similar to witch hunts, but with devil fruit users.

.

.

The last two months of school pass by with no word.

Lami goes to class, eats, sleeps, sneaks into the library, sleeps, rinse and repeat. Her teachers don't speak about her placement test, nor do they change her curriculum. Days flow together like a blur, and it's only when the older students are buzzing about exams being over that Lami realizes that there are only a few days left.

She gets her things in order: packs her bags and returns the library key that she stole.

While it is tempting to take the key home with her (maybe there's some intrinsic value to her first-ever crime committed), Lami wisely decides against it. At some point during the break, _someone_ will have to go through the keys. She would prefer to steal the key once again with the school none the wiser than show up at St. Monroe's only to find that they have revamped their security system because they realized that they were missing a key.

Lami would rather be safe than sorry.

Or, more like, would rather repeat the easy process of stealing the key than have to figure out a new way of sneaking into the library. Maybe she would have to resort to crawling through the rafters or pick up the trade of lock picking.

With her bags packed and the key returned, there leaves only one thing for Lami to do: wait.

.

.

It's only when Captain Barlow is standing at the entrance of the school on the last day that it really hits Lami that she is going back to Flevance.

"So how was prison, princess?" Barlow barks out, ignoring the annoyed glances of parents and teachers alike.

"Okay." She says simply while staring behind her blankly, not wanting to leave, "I wish I could have stayed in the library."

The captain heaves a loud laugh that feels misplaced in a place such as St. Monroe's, "On brand, princess, on brand. Alright, help me herd the rest of the kids and we'll have you lot to your families in no time."

Lami blinks and nods, though she has very little intention of doing what she is told.

.

.

The trip from Briar North to Flevance, this time around, will take nine days.

As it turns out, Barlow and her crew have picked up seven girls to be dropped off at their home islands, three of whom will be escorted before it's Lami's turn to leave the ship.

The first stop will be at Port Lock, where two of the girls will depart. The crew plans on staying at the dock for the night, since they'll be getting into the island quite late into the evening. Come morning they leave for Raven's Roost, where they will dock for two days to stock up on supplies and give the less experienced girls a chance to stretch their legs for a while.

Lami has no complaints about the turn of events.

( Less days spent in Flevance is more days she might get to live-

Well, hopefully, that's how it works, anyway )

.

.

Lami spends most of her first day on the quarterdeck, curled up in a sunspot against a side railing with a book ( _Brag Man_ ) she may or may not have stolen from St. Monroe's library. She doubts anyone will notice it's absence, anyway, if they hadn't noticed a _key_ being stolen. The book is an interesting read on the Grand Line, and though it is heralded as a book of exaggerated stories Lami would bet that the tales are closer to reality than the publisher would have liked to believe. Then again, those living within the corner Blues could never truly fathom the life in the belt.

After lunch on the second day, Lami finds herself watching one of the crewmen as he works with the rigging and sails. About a half an hour later she approaches him and asks him to explain his duties on the ship, and the intricacies of rigging. While initially shying away from the idea, after a little bit of prodding Lami convinces him to allow her to shadow him throughout the day. It's boring work, but the crewman tells her various stories of his travels in the North Blue and Lami listens with a keen ear. Barlow heaves a loud laugh when she spots the two of them but otherwise does not discourage it.

The third day follows the same routine; she follows the crewmate (who she learns is named Ashby) and listens to his stories. Most of them, she gathers, are exaggerated. He's a relatively new sailor, all things considered. He's not an expert storyteller, given the way he bubbles and trips over his words in excitement, but Ashby has a sort of awkward charm to him.

They dock at Port Lock that night. The crew escapes the confines of the ship and parties at a pub until late in the night, though Lami ends up returning to the ship and sleeping in her cabin despite the offer of sleeping in an inn.

When she wakes up the boat is already sailing. Most of the crew members are hungover but in good spirits after a night of letting loose. Breakfast is far more mellow than she has become accustomed to and she is more than willing to embrace the few moments of quiet. The rest of the day she follows Ashby, and this time she tells him about Flevance and Briar North. She doesn't find the topics very interesting, but he seems to enjoy it. From there on, she talks about the stories she has read in books and about the various points of history in the North Blue that Ashby's lackluster education has never afforded him, despite being twenty years older.

After some teasing remarks from the crew on the morning of the fifth day about her "" _intentions""_ with Ashby, Lami stations herself on the quarterdeck in silent rebellion and reads. The taunting shouldn't bother her, she knows, but the concept in itself is rather insulting. Lami wants to learn about the mechanics of a ship. Wants to hear first-hand experiences about life on the ocean and the _dangers_ that a normal boating crew incounters while sailing the North Blue. The fact that her interest could be _devalued_ and _misconstrued_ as an infatuation, or anything else as silly as that, leaves her bubbling and gritting her teeth as she attempts to finish the last couple chapters of the Brag Man.

Luckily, on the morning of the sixth, they reach Raven's Roost. Happy to escape the teasing, Lami slips away from a crewmate who is meant to supervise the children. While Barlow and her second-hand man, Lucky, are escorting the girl to the pickup spot, Lami spends her time weaving her way through the busy downtown area. Unlike Port Lock, which is quite small and simply a one-road port, Raven's Roost is a sprawling seaside town. Admittedly she spends most of her first day in the book shop, skimming through the titles until the shopkeeper tries to kick her out. Money speaks louder than words, so the older woman quiets down when Lami buys four books on the spot with the money she has accumulated throughout the years.

That night she sleeps in Raven's Wallows Inn. Though she has a roommate, the older girl is out like a light when she hits the bed, and Lami eventually sneaks out to the staircase so she can hear the festivities going on below in the pub. There, at the top of the staircase, she reads one of her new books in the dim lighting until her eyes start to droop.

The next day she continues her shopping spree; Lami buys foundation and new notebooks. There are a few other objects on her list of _things to buy_ , however, she runs out of money and submits herself to the distressing financial realities of a five-year-old girl.

She spends the entirety of that night and the eighth-day reading. On the morning of the ninth she finds out that the crew has moved on to a new victim; the cook. Uninterested in their gossip, Lami takes the opportunity to corner Ashby and convince him to show her different types of knots and how to best way to position yourself in a storm.

That afternoon, Lami arrives at Flevance.

.

.

Lami has barely made it onto the dock before she is accosted by her parent's tearful hugs and kisses.

While she would usually shy from such affections, Lami cannot help but lean into them, to curl her fingers into the fabric of her father's jacket or breathe in the familiar scent of her mother's hair conditioner. It's unexpected, the way her eyes burn and throat constricts. Lami hadn't realized that she missed them until suddenly they are _here_ and the displacement in her chest has alleviated. The sappy words of her parents fall on deaf ears, simply happy to _be_ with them, face pressed to her mother's shoulder.

( _breathe_ )

When Lami is released from her parent's joint hug, she is surprised to see that Law is also present.

Honestly, she anticipated his absence; he never replied to her letter.

She expects him to drop his gaze stubbornly, to turn away and stalk off, like he has done so many times before. The thought itself breaks her heart and she's not sure how she'll handle it happening-

But he doesn't.

But he _doesn't_.

Instead, he rushes towards her and pulls her into a crushing hug, no words spoken. Law's shaking, or maybe it's Lami, or maybe it's the both of them. There's a moment where she can hear them both struggle to breathe under the weight of their reunion and the distance that has grown in the past year. There are so many things to say, so many feelings to express. No one, _no one_ , understands her like Law; even if he doesn't know the entire patchwork of her existence, even if the similarities between them are miles apart. Singularly they are oddities, but _together_ \- they simply _are_.

But Law is a child, words and emotion do not commute easily with him. Lami herself is no better, a fact that she has come to terms with. So neither of them say a thing as they let go, but it's enough.

( for now )

* * *

 **meant to have this out on friday, but work was buck wild this weekend. have this 8k beast, instead.**

 **i've been watching a lot of detective conan recently, so i actually ended up being pretty inspired to write this! the only correlation is the reverting-to-a-child aspect, it's still a decent reference for inspo. (lami, in this story, is so much more like haibara than conan though, haha)**

 **as someone who has worked at a reception desk for university dorms, i can 100% verify that it's this easy to steal keys (though it's also getting much easier to find the culprits thanks to technology).**

 **i made a vague map of what st. monroe's looks like, in case i was poor with my descriptions. i'll be posting it in my profile.**

 **the boarding school arc will probably be two more chapters, at this rate. but next chapter we'll have a lami and law confrontation/talk! and more family bonding, in general, before she is thrown back to the wolves of higher class education. woo.**

 **[date: 2O19/O7/O2] [word count: 8,441]**


	5. journey

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O4.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _journey_.

* * *

Words claw at her throat when she startles awake from a vague and dissolving nightmare, quietly gasping and clutching at her chest with a sharp, desperate, overwhelming sense of _panic panic panic_ _—_

It takes a few moments for Lami to remember who she is— _where_ she is. Even longer still to recall how to breathe properly, to remember to _ground_ herself. She rolls over onto her stomach with shaking arms, holding onto a pillow for superficial comfort. When she finds that _time_ isn't calming the irregular thunder of her heart, Lami quietly sings a song into it to force herself to _breathe_.

 _Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night…_

( the lyrics bring up a flash of forgotten memories;

early morning car rides with the windows drawn down, fingers tapping in rhythm, sun peeking over the hills of the countryside; dark rooms with reverberating music, strobing lights, sweaty bodies; late-night campfires with an assortment of last-minute instruments; dancing in the living room with a woman whose face has been long forgotten—

how strange. )

It's a disjointed set of notes and words- nowhere near the original song, her mother tongue slurring with disuse and exhaustion weighing heavy on her tone.

Once settled into a... collected state, she pushes herself into a sitting position and wipes the drying sweat from her face.

It's been two weeks since Lami got back to Flevance and already she can feel the familiar tendrils of panic starting to retake its claim on her mind. It's infuriating. After ten months of slowly building herself up to a... better place, mentally, only for her to watch it slowly crumble apart all over again. It's not a cycle she looks forward to continuing, though she knows that it will and that she _must_ keep trying to break it. That she needs to have patience— with herself most of all.

She'd understand if the nightmares that plague her in the night were about her past death or her upcoming death… But these past few dreams have been _weird_. Disorienting.

With a disgruntled huff, she flops onto her side and hugs the pillow tightly to her chest.

What a waste of time and energy.

.

.

.

Fingers softly thread through Lami's thick auburn hair. Leaning back against her mother's knees, Lami's eyes fall shut at the soothing, comforting, sensation. The strokes are aimless and unprovoked; the action is done with mindless affection with no obvious direction of what is to be done or why.

Her mother is softly humming under her breath, a melody that Lami does not recognize, untangling a particularly stubborn knot from Lami's hair. She must be in a good mood. It draws an odd thought to mind; she's never heard her mother sing before. Perhaps she simply cannot remember it happening, but she can only call to mind her father's low, rustic singing.

She wonders why.

Drawing in a steady, measured, breath Lami pulls her legs up so she can hug them to her chest. Her mother makes no comment on the change of posture and begins to braid Lami's hair, having decided on a course of action.

She had forgotten quiet moments like this while on Briar North.

Law is around, somewhere. Not in the room, though. She can't hear his absent mumbling, the telltale habit that Law is studying. This is pretty much always, nowadays, so she knows that he must have moved to a room with better lighting now that night has started to settle.

Her mother runs her fingers through the half-finished braid, effectively restarting and picking at various strands of hair once more. Lami doesn't mind. Simply content to lean back and accept the soft comfort being offered.

After about ten minutes of this, they both hear Lami's father yell out that dinner is finished. Quickly finishing up the braid she'd been working on for some time, her mother ties the bottom and tilts Lami's head back so she can press a kiss to her forehead. Lami merely blinks at her, watching silently as her mother gets up from her spot on the couch and waves her forward as she leaves the room.

Lami's fingers momentarily brush against the spot on her brow; wondering idly if her mother had left any lipstick.

.

.

.

After Briar North, Lami suddenly finds herself _much more_ willing to withstand and sit through her father's dawdling and long-winded lectures.

Sitting at the edge of her seat, leaning heavily on the desk with one elbow while jotting down notes, Lami listens as her father jumps from one subject to another. It started with basic revision on the topics Law had learnt over the school year while introducing Lami to the subjects. Then he had moved onto chemical properties before getting completely off track and discussing prominent North Blue scientists that have aided in technological advancements. This then leads to Lami asking about Den Den Mushi, how they work, the historical source of their usage, and the cascading affects the discovery had on society.

Sometime during this discussion, Law had, once again, fallen asleep. Neither Lami or their father paid him any mind at the time, fully submerged by their conversation. But all good things come to an end.

"Alright Law," Their father says with a laugh as he taps at Law's desk, "That's enough snoozing from you!"

Law merely gives a garbled mess of words, hands rubbing at his eyes like a particularly miffed kitten. "If you guys talked about _interesting_ things then maybe you wouldn't _bore_ me to sleep..."

"Den Den Mushi _are_ interesting…" Lami mutters, "They can communicate _telepathically_."

"If only you'd go to sleep when you're supposed to, maybe then you'd stop sleeping in the middle of the day!" Their father retorts with a smirk, "Those eye bags of yours might become permanent at this rate. You too, Lami!"

Law and Lami exchange a weary glance, solidarity in the face of their father's continual judgement of their pasty and tired appearances.

"That's _your_ genetics, Dad." Lami huffs, swallowing thickly and slumping back against her seat.

It's not _their_ fault that their bodies are laden with poisonous metal.

"Your eyebags make _our_ eyebags look like nothing." Law agrees.

Their father gives a solemn nod, not even bothering to try to refute the argument, and says, "Which is exactly why I know better!"

Law _groans_ , nose scrunching in a way that _promises_ mayhem.

"Okay, but." Lami cuts in, before their dad can go on another spiel about their declining health; before _Law_ goes on a spiel; before _she_ starts to _spiral_. "Den Den Mushi- have there been any scientific studies focused on the... biology of their telepathic functions or mimicking capabilities?"

Their father snaps his fingers, seemingly just realizing they got off topic _again_. He moves towards his whiteboard and picks up a marker, "Short answer- no."

"Long answer?" Lami asked.

He grins, "Why, I thought you'd never ask! Now, Wron Minks, was the first to try…"

.

.

.

"Uhm, excuse me? Are your parents around?" A young librarian asks, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple as she takes in the makeshift fortress that Law and Lami have created in the middle of an aisle.

"Yeah. Around." Law mutters, engulfed in a book about metastasis ( _Molecular and Cellular Perspective_ ).

Lami is no better and doesn't bother to respond as she takes notes of her book on neurophilosophy ( _The Origins of Moral Intuition_ ).

It's an interesting read; one not born of necessity to understand her environment but chosen solely as a _fun read_. She has attempted to buffer her understanding of psychology, get to the roots of her own deeply embedded problems. However, she's come to the understanding that it'll be a... difficult _journey_ to traverse on her own. Even then, knowing the concepts behind psychology and neurophilosophy is completely different from consistently applying the knowledge to her own daily life and mindset. Without wanting to introduce someone else to the wastelands of her mind, all that's left to do is to go through the timeline of the History of Science and Psychology, an admittedly large field of study, and attempt to maneuver her way to comprehension and self-realization.

If she's being honest, she doubts she will get there anytime soon. If at all. But she feels more _steady_ with the false assurance that she is trying to find a.. cure. Regardless, the book is fun to read, if not a bit dry in places.

"I'm sorry, but children aren't allowed to be unsupervised in the library…" The woman attempts again, once she realizes that they fully intend on ignoring her.

"We are being supervised." Lami says, absently, flipping to a new page of her notebook, "Law is watching me and I am watching him."

"That's not how this works," The librarian says, sounding a bit exasperated and overwhelmed by the prospect of two rebellious children.

Lami understands; Law has effectively picked the shelves clean and has immersed himself into the texts, stacks of books surrounding him until only the top of his hat can be seen from outside perspectives. It'll take some time for the librarians to rearrange and reorganize all the books that Law has discarded.

At the same time, she'd like to read in peace.

"Our dad will be right back," She lies with shocking ease, looking up at the librarian with the most convincing innocent look she can manage, "He went to the cafe on the second floor."

The librarian shuffles on her feet, looking unconvinced but also unsure of this assessment. "Even still, he should not have left you."

"He'll be right back," Lami assures a second time, offering a smile.

The woman looks from Lami to Law and sighs. "Make sure he cleans up the mess you've made."

Lami watches the librarian leave, and when she looks back Law is staring at the book in her hand with his nose wrinkled.

"You know that those books are a crock full of shit, right?" He huffs.

"Mom will wash your mouth out with soap if she hears you talking like that," Lami says, but can't help but laugh a little. Children can be quite funny. He clearly has very little concern over the librarian or the laws in place and is creeping towards the age of picking up bad language. She wonders where he got it from.

"Plus-" She lifts her book and pats it a couple times in emphasis, "This is based on science! The field of study you love and adore!"

"I saw you reading _The Interpretation of Dreams_ yesterday." Law rebuffs, voice flat. "And before that _The Five Key Elements to Emotional Intelligence_. Strong contenders for the science community, no doubt."

Lami rolls her eyes, secretly feeling a tad bit defensive of his judgement on topics that she has been personally worrying about. Why is he cataloging the books she is reading, anyway?

"Still important topics nonetheless. We know so little of this universe and what everything _means_ on a macro level- who's to say that dreams can't... mean something? That there isn't something within us, or outside of us, trying to... guide us?" She asks, not entirely sure where she is going with this, if she even believes it. There has to be _something_ , and while she doesn't think she'll ever be privy to the inner workings of the universe.. isn't her existence _proof_ enough of _something_ out there?

"Dozens of scientific study, actually, but whatever. You study your faux science." His tone is remarkably snooty and he lifts his chin stubbornly.

"Yeah, and the East and West Blue's are _still_ run on the belief that Devil Fruits aren't real," Lami says with a huff of her own, confident now that he simply wants to _argue_ and debate. He isn't trying to insult her intellectual endeavours. "Devil fruits make _complete_ sense, _totally_ fits into our guidelines of science…"

Law puts down his book. The stubborn pout to his mouth promises nothing but a lengthy squabble in their near future.

But that's fine. Lami is stubborn too.

.

.

.

Halfway through her summer vacation, the Trafalgar family finds themselves on a boat headed to North Shore for a fireworks festival.

Understandably, Law's practically rendered mute in his excitement when he finds out about their trip. Having never been on a boat before, he's fulfilling his second life dream. Lami finds his enthusiasm remarkably adorable, despite how hard-pressed he is to hide it. Watching his quake in his shoes while maintaining a somewhat strained stoic expression had her buckled over in giggles.

However, when Law doesn't get seasick during their voyage, Lami is admittedly rather _sour_. Petty, no doubt. But it's embarrassing to remember her time spent below deck, her head stuck in a barrel, while now watching Law live his best life for the entire duration of the trip.

A _natural_ , one might say.

"A natural!" Her father did, in fact, say, laughing loudly as Law shuffles around the boat with hyper-attentive diligence. Her brother still looks like someone dropped an ice cube down his shirt and is trying to play it cool, even as he shadows one of the crewmen working on the deck. Lami might laugh if she weren't too busy sulking.

"Watch out, dear, he might turn out to be one of the hooligan's you fear!"

Her mother rolls her eyes in response and pats a hand on a sulking Lami's head, "Not our Law. Never our Law."

Lami clutches her thin book ( _The Four Components of Nonviolent Communication_ ) tight to her chest, persuading her expression not to look as stressed as she feels, "Dad.. you could say.. that he'll be... Lawless."

The laugh that is wretched out of her father's throat is unbidden and explosive, sending himself and her mother into another fit of laughter. Lami is somewhat proud of achieving this feat, preening quietly as they laugh at her terrible terrible joke.

( the fireworks display goes well that night—

even if something inside of her, quiet and unsolicited, finds itself flinching at each and every _boom_ , _boom,_ _ **boom**_ \- )

.

.

.

When the three day trip to North Shore is over with, Law and Lami find themselves in the hospital for a short check-up.

"Nothing serious" Their father had said.

True to his word, the siblings are in and out of their appointments in twenty minutes.

"She said I'm _short_ for my age." Law grumbles to Lami as they sit at the front of the hospital and wait for their mother to finish her shift.

Flevance is as pretty as ever, she thinks a little bitterly, trees white and glistening in the soft pink-purple sunset. Clouds slowly crawling across the sky, sprawled out over the horizon. She eyes the grass they are sitting on with fervent distrust, refusing to let her skin touch it. Law, meanwhile, is picking pieces of grass and methodically ripping the blades down the middle before discarding both halves over his shoulder.

"You _are_ short for your age." She points out, after a moment.

"That's _so_ relative."

"Well, _my_ doctor said that I'm _tall_ for my age," Lami says with a huff.

Law looks over at her and straightens his posture, mouth pulled into a stubborn line as he attempts to gauge their difference in height. He's got an inch on her, at most. She grew quite a bit while at St. Monroe's.

"I'm still taller, though."

"You're sixteen months older," Lami mutters, crossing her arms, despite knowing that it's a childish argument to get into.

The smirk smearing his face tells Lami that he thinks he has _won_ this squabble and she narrows her eyes at him. Before he can open his mouth with another retort, their mother exits the doors of the hospital and waves the two over.

Law and Lami exchange glances that confirm that this conversation Is Not Over and abide by their mother's hailing.

"Who's up for ice cream?" She asks, voice chipper than her usual smooth and steady tone.

"Me" Law and Lami say in unison, voices in identical monotone despite the way they fidget with excitement.

.

.

.

Her father slaps down about a dozen thick books onto her desk one morning, looking quite excited and pleased with himself.

"Now, we only have about a week left but your mother and I have discussed at length about your future. We started Law's medical training when he was four, as you know, but since you decided to attend St. Monroe's it has sent us both into a loop! We don't want to force you into a career you wouldn't like, however as you haven't shown any obvious favouritism to any of the topics you like to study... We figure that now may be the best time to introduce you to the expansive world of the human body."

Lami takes a swift look over the books and understands what he is implying: Anatomy.

Admittedly, she's a little excited too now. This _is_ a topic she has been interested in learning more about— especially since the bodies of this world do not function the same way as they did in her last world.

"I understand that it might be a bit inconvenient for you, Lami, since you'll be attending school in Briar North. Whereas Law has our tutelage and the medical school's undivided attention. But I doubt that extracurricular learning will dampen your spirits!"

"It _really_ would not." Lami is quick to say, remembering the _months_ of painful, boring, anguish.

Her father laughs, "Your letters _were_ beginning to feel quite dreary. But don't worry, I've got something in the works for you." He winks at her conspiringly.

Totally not suspicious.

Without missing a beat, he continues. "What Law might not want his precious little sister to know is that he's actually much more of a hands-on learner. Nothing wrong with that, of course! He's undoubtedly a surgeon in the making, with those unwavering hands of his." He gives a soft sigh, "He gets that from your mother."

Lami can't help but smile a bit at the sappy expression that falls over his face. The intrinsic love her parents have for each other is.. inspiring, even if she is a skeptic over such matters.

"But you are much more of an academic at heart, like myself!" He carries on, smiles bright and proud.

( like he's happy to have _this_ —

this changeling this _person_ this thing that is neither here nor there who took over his little baby girl-)

"So I trust that you'll be able to learn independently, in the quiet solitude of your books." He says, not noticing that her heart is in her throat, hands wrung together tightly with guilt guilt _guilt_. "If need be I will always be willing to answer any of your questions through letters, or if you have anything you would like further explained. Depending on the topic— you always have interesting questions for me— it may take a while for me to gather sources but I'll let you know whenever this is the case."

Lami stares intently at her desk, her father's words flowing into one ear and out the other. She should be happy to make her father proud. But instead, she feels—

Like knots; briar twisting and lacerating at her insides.

Lami takes a few deep breaths. She shakes the thoughts from her mind. She reminds herself that _she_ had no say whatsoever in _this_ life of hers, either. That _she_ is just as much of a victim of circumstance as her unwitting parents and brother. That lamenting over _this_ is… useless. Nothing is to be gained from it, not when she could be _learning_.

"Anatomy-" She forces out, wanting _out of her head_ , as if making mental notes of what he is saying, "mail you questions…"

"Yes yes, while in Briar North feel free to question me about anything. I can't guarantee immediate responses to all topics, but I'll do my best to reply both speedily and thoroughly!"

He pauses, staring at her for a moment before coughing lightly, "What would you say is your current understanding of anatomy?"

"Novice." She says because most of the words she _knows_ about the human body are not in any language he knows. Her knowledge of anatomy, in general, is very basic regardless. Not to mention it would be awfully presumptuous for her to assume that there are any correlations in science between the two worlds she knows, especially given how broad and varied the structures of humanoid creatures are in this world.

"Alright, we will start from... here, then!" He plucks a book from the top of the pile ( _Introduction to Human Anatomy_ ) and says, "Pull out a notebook, Lami! There's much to learn about the biology of our bodies, but we'll start with basic anatomy and _hopefully_ other aspects such as gross anatomy and histology in the near future..."

.

.

.

"There we go!" Her father huffs with triumph from the front porch, "I found the trunk, Lacie!"

"Was it in the attic?" Her mother calls back.

"Yes. I have all the books packed, too."

Lami watches from the living room floor as their father walks in, giving her a thumbs-up, "Aside from your uniforms, you're all packed, kiddo."

This year she has decided not to pack as sparsely as she did the year before. The prospect of continual poisoning is certainly a very real concern, but so is maintaining her sanity. The books and pens she intends on bringing are collected with calculation; made from outside countries with a noted absence of Amber Lead that isn't going to aggregate her disease.

"Thank you." Lami murmurs, quietly playing with her toes for a moment while she thinks, "I still need to pack up my notebooks and pens…"

She observes as Law stiffens from where he is taking notes but is distracted when their mother walks in from the dining room with a dish she's drying.

It's rare that both of their parents are home at the same time; busy, long hours at the hospital does not bode well for couples with children. But it's obvious that they have tried their best in the past two months to have a presence at home. Whether this is just for the summer or if it's a joint effort for the children's stability is to be determined.

"To think, it's already been two months." Their mother sighs, "Time flies by, hmm?"

Oh, how strange it's been. The summer passing by too slowly, achingly, every breath and bite of food done begrudgingly. But also too quickly, too suddenly, she hasn't had enough time with Law, or her father, or her mother-

"Only when you're having fun!" Her father says cheerily. Upon noticing Law's boarding silence, he heaves a soft sigh, "Oh, don't you worry son. She'll be back before you know it!"

Law says nothing, staring resolutely at his book. After a moment and suddenly stands up and runs out, but not before they see him wipe away the wetness from his eyes. Neither of her parents say anything in response.

Thorns manifest in her gut at this familiar song and dance.

.

.

.

Later that night Lami quietly taps on Law's door. Their father is at the hospital and their mother is in her study.

She waits.

After two minutes, the door creaks open enough for Law to peek through. When he sees her, she's _certain_ that he's about to slam the door— but he doesn't. Instead, he backs away, leaving the door slightly ajar. She swallows thickly, knowing that this isn't going to be an easy conversation, and slips into his room.

Law is sitting at his desk, stubbornly staring at his textbook. "What is it?"

Lami tries not to hesitate ( _hesitating might get her killed one day_ ) but it's difficult not to when there's this sudden tension between them. Things unsaid. It's unfairly dramatic for a five and seven-year-old, and yet it feels as though the air is slowly sinking out of the room.

They have to talk about their… emotions, she knows this. Lami has to _listen_. Law has to _listen_.

"I know you're upset." She starts, sitting down on his neatly made bed. Mind theorizing and creating threads of thought, before discarding them as useless or unhelpful. She does her best to recall the various self-help books she has unashamedly read, "I would.. appreciate it if you could.. explain.. why."

Law's mouth thins into a line and he says nothing.

It's difficult, she knows, so she _tries_ not to get frustrated.

Lami has a difficult time differentiating between _observing_ and _evaluating_ , finds emotions exhausting and burdensome to talk about when she spends _so much_ time pushing them away. But she needs to learn to _listen_ to Law, to let herself be vulnerable so that her own emotions can convey honestly and genuinely. It's easier said than done, but here she is— _trying_.

One day it's just going to be the two of them. She can't... She can't have them being like _this_ once the Flevance genocide hits.

"I…" Lami trails off, trying to grasp at words that won't articulate.

"You wrote that you _missed me_." Law cuts in, suddenly, staring at her with _gold gold_ eyes.

"I did." She confirms, focusing on how the fabric of her pants feels against the pads of her fingertips.

"You _wrote_ that you _missed me_ ," He repeats, like she missed what he meant, voice getting more and more heated as words start pouring out of his mouth, "You _wrote_ that you _missed me_ \- that, that you wanted me by _your side_. But you're leaving again, and I _don't_ understand _why_? What you _wrote_ and what you're _doing_ aren't— they aren't the _same_ , and I don't understand—"

His chair clatters against the floor as he stands up abruptly, hands balled into fists, "You say that you want to _talk_ , but _you_ never want to be the one talking. It's always _me_ , trying to pick apart _me_ with your— your pseudoscience. And even when you say you're here to talk.. you say that you want _me_ to explain myself? But you— you never say anything about you, or about _us_. I don't understand—" He drags his hands through his hair and makes a frustrated noise, "You _wrote_ that you _missed me_."

Lami finds herself completely and utterly overwhelmed. She stares, wordless and frozen. Their debates are usually articulate, and now both of them are rendered near useless: Lami at a loss for words, Law babbling and going in circles. She needs to listen, but he wants her to talk. She needs to talk, but she needs to listen to know what she needs to talk about, what he wants her to say.

"Do you even _care_ about us?" Law asks with too much ease, like it's a well-traveled path. "About me? About mom and dad?"

And his eyes, they ask and ask and _ask_ _—_

"Of course I care." She says, feeling numb. She focuses on the feeling of the fabric of her pants against her fingertips, "I love you. I do. I just— It's…"

There's a long silence while she tries to gather her fragmented thoughts. It was the wrong thing to say and she _knows_ it. Lami isn't prepared to talk about _this_ at full length, barely understands it herself let alone try to articulate it. She's not sure what she thought this conversation was going to look like, but it certainly wasn't... this.

"It's hard." She finishes, dumbly, staring at her brother with utmost sincerity.

"It's hard loving us." He repeats, tone flat. It's almost convincing, if it weren't for the telltale tremble of his bottom lip.

"No!" She startles, but also _yes_ , "No it's. Hard to?" — she runs her hands through her hair —" _show_ it. No— that's not. I don't _know_ , I don't think about it. Honestly. I... try not to."

Law is quiet for a moment, observing her, "Say you missed me."

Lami blinks at him, "I missed you."

There's a pregnant pause before he says, "Did you even realize that you haven't even _said that_ to me? To dad? To mom? Since you got back?"

Lami stares. No, she hadn't. "I— I said I missed you—"

"That was months ago!" he bursts out, hands running down his face in what looks like exasperation, "In a _letter_."

"But I said it—" She points out, indignant.

"You _wrote_ it! There's a difference!"

There's a stubborn pause between the two of them; Law wants a reply and she doesn't understand the significance of this trivial matter.

Once again it's Law that breaks the silence.

"Say that I'm the _best_ big brother you could ever have," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. It's childish and it's a change that she doesn't understand.

"You're the only big brother I'll ever have," Lami points out, feeling much more familiar and comfortable with the new tone of the conversation, "therefore you are the best, regardless."

"Should we take you to a doctor to test your hearing? Because _that's_ certainly not what I said." He snarks, but he _stares_ at her.

Lami scratches at her knee, fiddling with the fabric, confused. She's not a Den Den Mushi, she's not sure what he's trying to _convey_ here, but she's willing to go along with whatever Law is shaping up for them. "You're the best big brother I could ever have."

Law's chest puffs up, "Damn right I am."

She still doesn't understand the shift in the conversation, so she merely nods solemnly.

"Say that you'll stay here. With us." He says, and oh. Is where he's been going with this?

"I can't." Lami looks up at him, meeting his gaze, "I don't want to."

This time the silence is more pronounced, stretching on and on. She can see the gears turning in his head, trying to make as much sense of this conversation as she is.

"You want me to be by your side," He starts slowly, but it doesn't sound like it's directed at her, "but you don't want to be here."

Lami nods.

"Because you're selfish." He finishes, just as slowly, as though he isn't sure whether this is the conclusion to his thought.

Her mouth parts at his blunt word choice before it hits her: that's another callback to her letter, isn't it? Lami had called herself selfish. So she nods again and confirms slowly, "Because I'm selfish."

Law's arms tighten and his mouth curves down into a serious expression, "I'm also selfish, though!" The way he says it expresses that this is clearly a very big issue for him; that he doesn't think that they _both_ can be selfish. "I don't want you to go. I want you to stay. I want to be your big brother."

"You'll always be my big brother…" She murmurs, genuine and lost as to why he'd think otherwise. Lami watches as he takes in a deep breath, _relieved_ , almost, and— maybe she has been looking at this conversation wrong, as though he's _accusing_ her of something when really—

Looking back, it sounds like he just wants validation.

"I love you." She tries, "being in Briar North isn't going to change that. Nothing is going to change that. I'm going to miss you, but I'll see you again. I'll be back, by your side, always."

Law says nothing until his mouth starts to tremble with emotion, this time accusatory, "You only wrote me _one_ letter. You wrote dad _twenty-three_."

 _He's been counting_ , she realizes. Law has obviously been fixating on these letters. "You didn't write me _any_! You didn't even respond to _my_ letter."

Unsubtly wiping at his eyes Law forces out, "Yeah, because I was _mad_ at you! You _left_ me for some fancy _girl_ school. You didn't even tell me that you were leaving! That _hurt_. What's _your_ excuse?"

"Pettiness, mainly." She responds dully, self-realization hitting her once more. Oh, _oh_.

Lami had never thought that Law would be hurt by her leaving. And maybe she'd been right in that assumption, but in ways she hadn't expected: he'd been hurt because she invalidated his feelings, neglected to tell him of her decision to leave, avoided him when convenient, and left without letting him know that she _cares_.

"I'm sorry." She wrings her hands together anxiously, "I didn't realize that you would be sad about me leaving... And when you were mad with me, I didn't know how to respond. I didn't know how to talk to you without it sounding like a _lecture_. I didn't realize that... You were doubting whether I cared about you."

"Yeah." Law says, voice thick and eyes hidden by the sleeve of his pajamas, "Because you're an _idiot_."

 _He doesn't mean that_ , she thinks to herself. But Lami is starting to understand the situation more. Her parents have never been too outwardly hurt about her closed-off behaviour because they are adults; mature enough to handle being careful when it comes to her boundaries. But Law is a child, no matter how much of a genius he is. He sees her avoid affection and thinks _she must not want it_. He sees her leave and thinks _she must not want me_.

"Yeah... I'm an idiot…" She repeats, voice trembling a bit. "I care about you, Law. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you."

Lami rubs at her face, feeling so _so_ tired. Maybe it's best to conclude that she knows nothing about anything at any given time, no matter how much she likes to think otherwise.

Standing up, Lami stalks over to Law and hugs him. He immediately, _immediately_ , leans into it, makes a soft wet noise before wrapping his arms around her and holding on tightly, like he's scared to let her go.

"I'm sorry." She repeats, quietly.

.

.

.

This time when Lami leaves Flevance, Law and their mother accompany her to the docks.

Her father had, in a fit of tears, told her that he was being called into work the next morning. That he would not be able to see her off. Lami had more or less shrugged the news off, content enough to give their goodbyes that night. The same could not be said for her father, who apologized over and over for his "abandonment" of her in Lami's needed hour. It's an overly dramatic conversation and she was given the impression that is was on purpose.

"I'll buy you a souvenir," Lami tells Law, a little awkwardly, as they wait for Barlow's crew to let her on board.

"With what money?" Law says suspiciously, "I want a treasure map. No— a sword."

"No sword." Their mother cuts in casually as she tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

"With _this_ money-" Lami holds up a sack of coins that her father had slipped into her room the previous night.

Their mother snaps her head to Lami and brings a hand to her face. Very quietly she starts muttering darkly about _soft idiotic men_ and their _utter weakness_ to their children.

"Whoa!" Law gasps, jaw-dropping, "How much beli is in there?"

"At _least_ two thousand." She says, a little smug, though she is simply guessing by the weight.

"What does a five-year-old need two thousand beli for?" Their mother asks, but the way she looks off into the distance implies that it's a rhetorical question.

"Books." Law and Lami say at the same time.

"Of course. Why did I even ask?"

Lami shakes the sack so that the coins make a pretty _jingle_ noise and wiggles her shoulders tauntingly at Law. He might be older but now _she's_ the _rich_ one.

Law, as if reading her mind, scowls. Leaning in, he mouths _I want a sword_ to her.

Staring at her money bag contemplatively, she wonders if she can purchase all the things on her _To Buy For The Future Genocide List_ plus a sword. A sword could maybe be useful for the genocide, but she doesn't think either of them would be able to properly use one.

"No swords." Their mother cuts in again, more exasperated than anything. "You most definitely cannot buy a sword with two thousand beli, let alone a _good sword_."

"How much would a _good_ sword cost?" Law asks, hand on his chin.

"Depending on the making, _when_ it was made, who it was made by, whether it has a name, or it's notoriety... It could be anywhere between fifty-thousand beli and a billion. You'd need at _least_ a million to get a _good_ quality sword."

Law's jaw drops, "F-fifty _thousand?_ A _million_?"

Lami looks at her money sack, then up to Law. "I don't have fifty thousand for a sword."

"Precisely." Their mother says, patting both of their heads, "Which is why you should both give up on the notion of buying a _sword_. What would you even need it for?"

Lami can think of five things off the top of her head—

"They look cool," Law says in a complete deadpan while somehow managing to stare up at their mother with _pleading_ panda eyes.

"How do you know how much swords cost?" Lami asks suddenly, thought coming to mind with a start.

"Ah, well." Their mother looks away with her mouth pressed into a careful line and perks up as she gestures towards the boat, "Looks like it's time for you to board, Lami."

Looking over her shoulder, she sees Barlow and Lucky are indeed waving her forwards. Lami stares at her mother suspiciously, but relents and lets the conversation drop.

Before she can say anything, Law has grabbed her and holds her in a tight hug. They are silent for a long moment and there's no room for her to say anything as he runs off as soon as he lets go. Lami has the suspicion that he does not want to see her leave, which breaks her heart just a bit.

Her mother pats her head, "Have a good year, Lami. Stay out of trouble and do well in school. Remember to brush your teeth and eat at least three times per day—"

"I know, I know, I know." Lami interrupts, hugging her mother around the waist to distract her from her budding lecture. "I'll see you when I get back."

Fingers brush through her hair, and Lami relaxes into it. Her mother can't help but add, "Take care of yourself. I love you."

Lami nods into her mother's stomach, voice caught in her throat as she stares at their feet. They stand like this for a long moment, until her mother strokes her back.

"Alright, time for you to go."

She lets go.

.

.

.

Lami isn't sick this time on Barlow's ship, which turns out to be called _Nameless_.

The crew gets a kick out of the name and laugh themselves into stitches when Lami nearly eye rolls herself unconsciousness when she hears it.

It rains for most of the five-day journey to Briar North, so Lami ends up reading below deck in either the dining hall or her cabin and exchanges more stories with Ashby. It's a quiet journey, only stopping once to pick up a first-year and supplies.

.

.

.

As per her usual routine, Lami asks the first-year student about her home island in an attempt to make conversation one night while having dinner. Initially, she had assumed the girl to be quiet, but after a few prodding questions, Lami finds that the girl is actually quite the chatter bug who is simply nervous about leaving her home island for the first time.

The girl is nobility of some sort. It's just a guess from the things the girl says, the fine material of her clothing and belongings. When Lami asks to confirm her theory the girl refuses quite drastically, face burning red with embarrassment and... perhaps pleased at being thought as such. She explains that her mother is simply _very_ close to the leader of her island, and Lami gets a… suspicion of what the young girl is, what her mother's profession may be, and why she's going to Brair North.

But it's best not to speculate on such matters, especially when Lami knows very little of anything.

Regardless, it's nice to listen to the girl ramble.

.

.

.

"It's not complicated work." Ashby shrugs as he ties a knot for her. "Only when a storms hitting when you gotta watch yourself."

Lami nods, taking his advice to heart, even though she's pretty sure he's just flexing on her, "What about when it's just raining, like now?"

"Not so much. You get used to it. Storms, though— the wind can be a _bitch_ and the sea is a vengeful mistress."

Tapping her chin, a thought pops to mind, "Well, what about pirates? Invaders."

A laugh startles itself out of Ashby and an odd grin finds itself on his face. "Nothing to worry about there."

"Why not?" Lami blinks, it is certainly the first worry that would come to _her_ mind about a transport vessel.

"Let's just say that no one wants to mess with _us_." He pauses and then looks a little sheepish. "Okay, no one wants to mess with _Barlow_."

Lami starts to ask another question when a loud, stern, voice cuts her off. "Ashby, it's your turn to go up on deck!"

"Wait—"

Ashby groans at the prospect but stands up anyways. "Guess I gotta go. See you 'round kid."

Lami is left staring.

.

.

.

Lami doesn't get to ask her question as the _Nameless_ finds itself arriving in Briar North the next morning. It leaves her slightly frustrated, knowing that there is a list of growing inquiries that she won't get any answers to until the school year is over.

After breakfast, Lami and the other first-year girl are escorted off of the _Nameless_ by Barlow and four of her men who carry the girls belongings behind them. It's a short trek from the docks to the school gates, and Lami takes some pleasure in the awe that falls upon the younger student's face when they walk across the gardens and up to the front entrance.

Having arrived earlier than the year before, Lami is aghast to see two _lines_ trailing out of the admin's office and through the large interior. Students, parents, maidservants, and others crowd the hall, some excited to return and some obviously disgruntled by their situation. A teacher yells instructions; which lineup is for what students, and what to do once you've got your schedule, room key, and uniform.

Barlow _groans_ , clearly also displeased by how busy it is. "Oh, fuck this." She turns, ignores the gasp of the first year, and stops when she sees her four crewmates carrying the girls belongings. The captain grits out a long and extended. " _Shit_."

Lami, for one, would be quite miffed if she had to carry her trunk to her dorm. At the same time, she wouldn't be _too_ mad about it. She wouldn't want to wait in the lineup, either. But she is _certain_ that the small first year would not be able to carry her three luggage bags and that she has likely never lifted _anything_ in her life.

She can see the war of decision raging in Barlow's eyes, and it's with a quiet curse that she waves a hand at the lineup and tells her men to wait outside.

"Well? What are you rascals waiting for? In line you go." Shepherding the two girls to the back, Barlow scuffs her heeled shoe against the shiny waxed floor with obvious disdain.

The captain stays for all of five minutes before she huffs out and raises her hands in the air. "That's it. That's all I got in me kids. I'm going to get something to fucking eat and drink."

The students around them stare at Barlow with a mixture of expressions, though most of the adults look insulted by the woman's language.

"Are you allowed to do that?" Lami asks, wondering if she could get some food as well.

"Who's going to stop me?" The captain says with a foxy grin, strutting off to the staircase leading upstairs.

She's about to clarify that the cafeteria is not upstairs but in another building, but stops herself and says instead, "Bring me something."

The first-year girl stares eyes wide at Barlow, hugging a stuffed rabbit to her chest. Lami merely sighs, knowing that she has been delegated babysitting duty, and simply nudges the girl forward as the line starts moving.

They've gotten through most of the line when Barlow returns, a glass of wine in hand and a plate of cheese and crackers in the other.

"You'd think they'd have something a little more _substantial_." The woman says with a scoff, handing the plate to Lami so that she can throw her red hair over her shoulder, "For someone as loaded as Madeline, you'd think she'd splurge a little on the _necessities_ and invest in a little meat, for Poseidon's sake."

"Madeline?" Lami asks, picking off some cheese and crackers and promptly stuffing them in her face. _Poseidon_ is an odd choice of word for a civilian.

The first year looks a little mortified, but politely takes a cheese when Lami wordlessly gestures for her to take one. Or perhaps not _politely_ , but done of perceived obligation?

"The President." Barlow gruffly responds, snatching a cracker and nibbling on it.

Lami blinks and realizes, oh, of course, the President has a name.

"Next!" A woman says.

"Finally!" Barlow cheers, pushing past the kids and into the office.

Lami and the first-year exchange a look and follow the woman in.

"O~oh Akane! It's so good to see you!" Ruth greets with cheer, straightening her posture and grinning over the desk. "Who do you have for me today?"

"Just these kids," the captain quickly pushes the two girls in front of her, as if using them as meat-shields against the secretary, "Let's just get those forms all set up and approved, shall we?"

Ruth turns to Lami and with a honey-sweet tone says, "Welco~me back, sweetie! And hello to you, newcomer! I hope you are excited about your road to excellence! Don't mind Akane here, she's a bit of a party pooper."

"Are you even allowed to say that?" Barlow asks, leaning on the desk with an elbow, lips curving into a smile. "I could file a complaint, you know. Potty language in front of my charges? How _scandalous_."

"Oo~h?" Ruth smiles, though there is nothing kind to it as she nods towards the cheese platter that Lami is eating out of, "And I'm sure that the President would loo~ve to know where our _guests_ food and wine has gone."

Barlow scowls, flicking a strand of hair behind her.

"You've made me an accomplice in your crime." Lami says in a deadpan, continuing to eat from the plate, "Isn't that child endangerment or something?"

"Oh, bug off princess." Barlow huffs, all but sulking as she stalks off.

Ruth gives a pleasant giggle, eyes watching intently as the red-head leaves. After a few moments, she catches herself and turns to the children.

"She has so little patience." And despite how sugary sweet and fake Ruth's tone has been, there's a bit of genuine fondness poking through. "Alright dears, do~o you have your papers with you?"

.

.

.

This year it takes _time_ to unpack and set up her room.

A part of Lami tells her to be sparse in her decorating, that she shouldn't put too much effort into her time here or put too much emotional emphasis on sentiment. There will come a point in her life where she will have to abandon this, where she will likely be on the run until the end of her days. She'll _survive_ Flevance, and all the tragedies afterward, but if the government were to hear that there are survivors— well, wouldn't that be another Ohara? _Objects_ and _places_ will just drag her down.

However, the other part of her argues that she should _at least_ allow the little joys that life can still afford her. That organizing her bookshelf in _just_ the right way to look both aesthetically pleasing while also methodical and in order is just a little bit of icing on a cake. That rearranging her uniforms and regular clothes by colour is simply _practical_.

If she spends a bit more time than usual setting up her newspaper clippings, notes, and pictures along her walls and desk, well, there's no one but herself here to judge.

It's difficult, she knows, to maintain a balance between allowing herself to be happy while she still can and actively cutting out what will eventually be hurtful to her in the future.

Carefully placing a photo of her family on the windowsill, she privately thinks that it's unavoidable.

.

.

.

Lami's schedule is different this year.

Of course, she had realized this as soon as she got the paper slip. It's standard for classes to change and rearrange themselves as they advance in years, so she hadn't put too much thought into the busier and more thorough timetable she was given. It isn't until she and her classmates fall into the familiar motions of attending class that she begins to realize that her schedule is _different_ than those in her year. That some of the classes she attends have a motley crew of girls who are mostly a few years older than her; still in the younger bracket of students, up to year 6.

She should have expected this to happen, given the silence after her placement test, but it's still startling when Lami compares her itinerary with another girl her age.

Fine Art, etiquette, music, literature, and social studies are classes she shares with her year mates. Lami finds herself in the corner classroom of the top floor for the rest of her studies; science, mathematics, history, and language arts. It's not just the classes that have swapped, but also subjects added to her course load; independent studies for two afternoons after classes have ended and health and fitness three days a week before lunch.

Aurora, a girl who lives in the room across from her, wrinkles her nose when she takes Lami's schedule.

" _Gym_? Egh!" She holds the piece of paper away from her like she'll catch germs from it, "The older girls tell me you have to _run_ in it!"

Lami rolls her eyes, wondering how the other girl is old enough to sneer at such things. She switches their sheets and says in a flat tone, "The horror. I might _sweat,_ too."

Aurora squeals, shaking her head vigorously.

"Don't worry, it's not something you'll have to concern yourself with for another year or so." Lami points out dryly and resists sighing when the girl immediately brightens.

"That's right! This is a _you_ problem." Aurora then looks down both ends of the hallways, leans in, and says, " _Sucks_ to be you."

She then giggles and runs off.

Lami stares after the girl, blinking once then twice before looking down at her schedule. She actually thinks that it'll be an improvement from the year before. The prospect of having independent studies, even if only for two hours a week, eases her shoulders just a little. And gym? Lami is _more than_ happy to have an outlet where she can just _run_ and _play_. There had been so many restless nights the year before where her blood had run with an electricity that refused to quiet, so many days spent twitching and itching to _do something_.

This schedule, while not the be all end all to her problems, feels a little bit like a breath of fresh air.

Even still.

 _Sucks to be you_.

"Yeah," Lami says quietly to herself, thinking of fire, genocide, pain pain _pain-_

"I guess so."

.

.

.

The classes go as well as one would expect them too.

Etiquette is long and boring. Learning how to properly sit, eat, and talk is not something she deems especially important, but who knows, so she sits in sufferance and absorbs what little she can.

Literature is an interesting subject, if only because Lami likes to pick apart the subtle undertones in the children's tales; is this a reference to an event that happened, blatant propaganda, or subjection of the youth while they are still young and impressionable? What morals do children gain from this story, and how do they (the WG) twist the story to gain profit for their ideals and goals? When examined under a suspicious eye, any story can look less innocuous than how it initially appears. Though she doubts that her teacher has any interest in hearing Lami's critical thoughts on the stories, unlike a professor at a university.

Social Studies and Fine Art are met with identical indifference. Art allows for her to vent out some stress and fine-tune her motor skills while Social Studies allows her to expand her knowledge of the North Blue. Unfortunately, Lami has already done quite a bit of research on her own, so most of what she listens to in class are subjects she has already taught herself. "The cartography of the world is horrendously inadequate" is the basic lesson she finds herself coming back to.

Music is not worth her time.

Her "Advance Courses" are still not up to par with her intelligence, but at least she's not adding two and three together or being told the basic principles of science anymore— which is a confusing concept in itself, given the contradictory nature of this world. It's frustrating, going through elementary topics when there is _so much_ in this world to explore and study; the different lifeforms that make up the population of the world, the geological implications of the land structures and their placements, the dizzying meteorology of the four blues and the belt, lineage factor, devil fruit, seastone- the list goes on and on and on—

And yet, Lami will probably never learn about these things through legal means. There's a chance that _all_ the things she has learnt is made up or altered in some way to prevent _loose ends_ or whatever reason one might want to purposely debilitate an education system. It doesn't escape her that most well-known scientists are directly related to the World Government.

It's aggravating, how the education system is so censored and _dumbed down_.

Her independent studies are spent almost solely on her anatomy books; writing notes, attempting to draw diagrams, giving herself quizzes at the beginning of each session. Occasionally she'll use it to work on homework or projects, but she rarely needs to time outside of class. The room she uses is supervised by a teacher who more or less looks like she would rather be elsewhere, but it's a quiet environment and the woman doesn't bother Lami too much except for when Lami is taking too long to leave.

Lami finds solace in her fitness class, as embarrassing as it is for her to admit. It's a ridiculously easy class where the teacher simply lets them run around and play various games that Lami has never heard of but is more than willing to throw herself into. The gym uniform is tremendously more comfortable than the standard one, consisting of breathable material that contrasts with her stiff button-up and pants. It's nice, for once, to just thoughtlessly throw herself into an activity.

.

.

.

Three weeks in and Lami receives the first set of letters from her family.

Her mother's letter is short and sweet, asking how she is doing and a reminder to send a letter to Law. Her brother sends a letter but the only thing inside is a piece of paper with drawings of swords that Law would (presumably) like her to buy for him. Her father's _package_ is long-winded and sappy, bringing up stories from the hospital and funny renditions of things Law has said or done. He asks how her studies have gone, if she has read through any of the anatomy books yet, and whether the new schedule is better. He also attaches a little booklet for her to complete, telling her to send it back whenever she is finished.

It's with this she realizes that her father had a hand in the change of her timetable and she finds herself smiling down at the papers in hand.

Her father is such a busybody.

Setting down the papers, Lami takes out her writing supplies from her desk drawer and begins to compose her replies.

.

.

.

Lami makes it two months before her patience snaps and she finds herself taking her fake key out of its hiding spot between the pages of one of her books in her shelf.

The mission to hijack the library key goes almost identical to her previous endeavour: Lami's uniform has gotten too small and she needs another one.

It's not exactly a lie: it's astonishing how fast Lami is growing, and she can't help but wonder if it's because of the produce the cafeteria uses. She doesn't remember Lami ever being a girl tall for her age, but then again it's not like Law's backstory prior to Doflamingo had been thoroughly discussed.

On the other hand, Lami certainly could go another month or two in her current set of uniforms. Albeit, uncomfortably, but she isn't typically one for a needless waste of materials and it wouldn't particularly bother her until it's constricted her movement.

However, this time it's for a good cause.

Just like before, Ruth goes into the room behind the secretary's office. Knowing that time is limited, Lami sneaks behind the desk as soon as the door closes behind the woman. Flicking open the extra key cabinet, she switches her fake key out for a library key. She spends a couple seconds to tuck the fake key in the back of the "Library Key" box so that it can be seen but is difficult to discern from the others. With a glance at the door, Lami ducks back to the front of the office and sits in one of the waiting chairs.

Her rush is for nought: Ruth doesn't return for another ten minutes and it's with a rushed apology that the woman explains that it took a while to find Lami's size.

"I suppose I'll have to file a report." Ruth sighs, sliding the clothes across the desk, "Oo~h, what a hassle."

She seems remarkably in bad spirits. Her eyes are rimmed with red and Lami cannot recall if it'd been like that before the secretary had gone in the back room.

"Uh." Lami says, holding the uniforms to her chest, unsure whether she should comment on it, "Thank you."

"You shouldn't stutter." Ruth tuts, rifling through one of her desk drawers, "It's bad manners! Etiquette 101, Lami!"

"... Sorry."

"Oh gosh, where is it…" Ruth says instead, leaning down further to inspect. She not-so-discretely sniffs.

Not wanting to get involved or become the focal point of her sad mood, Lami gives a quick bow and says, "Thank you goodbye" and leaves before she can be berated again for her rushed speech.

.

.

.

The library is her safe haven. A home away from home.

It's with a small, lingering, sense of guilt that Lami acknowledges that there is no place she has ever felt safer than in the St. Monroe's library.

Considering the fact she has committed theft _and_ trespassing in doing so, at the risk of losing her position as a student of the school— well, she thinks it likely says a lot about her circumstances and person.

But it's hard to disquiet the feeling of _home_ when she finds herself sneaking in after midnight. It's nice; the quiet, the smell of _books_ , the dark, the small sense of warmth that radiates from her candlelight, the now-familiar weight of the key chained around her neck. She finds herself immediately relaxing the moment she has tucked herself away with a book ( _Gone by Daylight_ ) in hand, fully intent on spending the next few hours immersing herself in a ridiculously cheesy and downright nauseating romance novel about a bounty hunter and the man she has captured.

It's only when streaks of sunlight peek into the library that she realizes that she has overspent her stay, quickly snuffing her candle and escaping before the librarian shows up.

.

.

.

Lami's birthday is a quiet affair.

It's expected and it's what she wants, having told no one in St. Monroe's when it is. It feels.. wrong, celebrating the day that _Lami_ was born when—

It's debatable if she's even _Lami_ at this point.

Without her family to appease the day goes on like any other and it's only once the lights have gone out that Lami takes out the birthday candle that her father sent and lights it. She doesn't have a cake or pastry to put it in, so she simply holds it and stares.

Lami was told to make a wish and she finds herself stumbling on what to ask for.

Survival isn't something she can _wish_ for, no, it's something that she will _demand_. Something she will _work for_. She's not going to leave it up to faith, leave it to a _wish_ while she sits on her hands and waits for time to pass. No, it's not something she can wish for.

The wax has started to bleed onto her fingers by the time she has thought of a wish.

It's quiet and halting when Lami wishes and wishes and _wishes_ for her family to be happy, satisfied, with the little girl they have ended up with.

She blows out the candle.

.

.

.

It's two in the morning when Lami _almost_ gets caught sneaking back to her dorm from the library.

Admittedly, she was a little distracted by a recent find of hers; a small little diary depicting the life of one of the first girl's to attend St. Monroe's. It's not very exciting but _is_ interesting to contrast and compare the environment depicted in the diary and the one that Lami lives each day.

Luck is what differentiates her from being caught, and it's with the steady sound of talking creeping up to her that Lami snaps to attention. Glancing around, Lami ducks into the nearest nook and presses up against a wall in an attempt to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. A light comes into view, just as the voices start to become distinguishable.

"-ey are so pretentious." A man says, voice low with irritation. He must be one of the upper-year teachers, as none of the younger years have male personnel. "Just because they are higher up in the chain? Pah."

"Shush." A woman says and Lami recognizes it as her Arts teacher, "The walls have ears, you know."

For a thundering second, Lami thinks she is _caught_. Holding her breath and squeezing in as hard as she can against the wall, she chants a silent mantra to remain unseen, to have no presence.

"The walls can kiss my ass." The man mutters.

"Oh?" The woman hums, clearly not paying attention as she walks right past Lami, "And here I thought I-" she stops a few feet from Lami so she can press a finger to his chest while backing his up against a wall, "-was the only one."

Lami is fairly certain that she has stumbled across a forbidden love affair and she would rather be _anywhere_ else than where she currently is. What her art teacher said doesn't even make _sense_. It's very disorienting, if not also a little disappointing.

The man smiles- _she can see him smiling, they haven't noticed her yet-_ "Well, the only one I'd _like_ to."

 _God, these one-liners_ , Lami gags. It's not even _good_ flirting. Though, to their credit, she doubts that an all-girls children's school is a good place to pick up lines.

The woman giggles, "Don't let the President know that. I'm sure she'd have a few _choice_ words for you."

"She has 'choice' words for _everything_." The man grumbles, clearly having some sort of past with this.

"Maybe if you weren't so _rebellious_ —" The art teacher singsongs before she is cut off,

"Oh, but then we wouldn't be able to do _this_ —"

The disgust that finds itself coiling in her stomach as the two start to kiss is only replaced by the _panic_ that _surges_ through her when she pushes back once more against the wall, shifting in place, and starts to _fall_ —

.

..

...

To the floor.

It's dark, Lami can't _see_ and it's hard to _breathe_ , the _air_ feels _stiff_ and her lungs feel _heavy_ -

"Did you hear something?" Someone says, voice muffled.

"I was a little preoccupied, I'll admit."

"Oh, stop." However, they sound rather pleased, "Maybe we should go…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so too-"

The voices then fade away, leaving Lami _alone_.

It takes her a few minutes to calm the thundering in her chest; fright seizing her and rendering her mute and motionless as she lays on the floor while her breath rips in and out of her. She can't _see_ and her hands shake as she reaches towards the strap of her bag, fingers trailing along with it to the satchel and snakes inside to look for her candle. She struggles to find it, mind spiraling and trying to catch up with the turn of events, but eventually, she grabs hold of the candle and her package of matches.

Lighting the wick also proves to be an issue, but she manages it after three tries and accidentally burning herself twice.

Focusing on her breathing, now that there is a light source, Lami forces herself to relax.

Standing up, Lami looks at her surroundings and stares with her mouth agape at the staircase below her. Cobwebs litter the ceiling and floor, dust floating in the air and coating the ground and staircase with a thick layer. Down and down the steps go into the dark, the bottom stairs unseen from her position.

Looking back at where she came from, she inspects the wall and _pushes_ on it. The surface stands still. She attempts a few more times, pressing at different places in the wall before finally managing to find the indent. The wall swings open, turns, then falls back shut.

Glancing over her shoulder, Lami contemplates her choices.

Explore or go to bed?

The _urge_ to follow the trail is overwhelming. The threads of possibilities are endless and the knowledge that there is something _more_ to investigate is exhilarating. But her logical train of thought takes over as soon as the thought comes to mind. She doesn't have the proper supplies; what if she gets lost or stuck? As tempting as it is to rush head-first into the unknown, the concept of getting trapped beneath the surface without any guide or possible help is enough to stop Lami in her tracks.

Finding the indent once more, Lami pushes through the false wall. She pauses before moving forward, listening, and when she hears nothing she quietly sneaks through the halls to her dorm with only one thought in mind:

What is underneath St. Monroe's?

* * *

 **looks like the boarding school arc isn't going to end for a couple more chapters, with the rate i'm going. i've been saying that for every chapter so i'm going to stop speculating when i'm going to finish, haha. it'll happen when it happens. i still have a bunch more i want to include before shit goes down in flevance.**

 **it has also occurred to me that i will likely have to change the rating once the genocide rolls around... i'm unsure what to think about this. anyways.**

 **thank you all for reading and for your patience with my tardiness! feel free to ask any questions or check out my blog fic-pickyourpoison for art/updates for posts! (i want to draw law's shitty swords letter, haha.)**

 **until next time.**

 **[date: 2O19/O9/O7] [word count: 11594]**


	6. tunnels

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O5.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _tunnels_

* * *

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

Water softly leaks from a pipe that runs along the side of the tunnel, the sound of it hitting a puddle echoes deep within the labyrinth Lami finds herself in.

The air is stale and _dirty_ in her mouth. It's with reluctance that Lami crouches and places both her candle holder and broomstick on the ground. She pauses to watch quietly as the flames flicker at the sudden movement. When the light remains, Lami reaches into her satchel and pulls out a strip of cloth. Leaning back for balance, she securely ties her hair back with an elastic, then does the same with the cloth around her mouth and nose. Tugging at the fabric covering her face, Lami readjusts the knot to be tighter. She's not sure if it'll help with anything, but caution runs deep within her.

Taking the candle back in hand, Lami stands up and palms at her bag.

Her notebook is at the ready.

It has taken three weeks to find the best opportunity to explore the hidden staircase she found that night while trying to escape detection.

With an odd sense of irony, Lami finds that _time_ is all she has at St. Monroe's. Though the _ticking_ of the clock still sends threads of dread lacing through her ( _how many years, weeks, days does she have left?_ ) it's with calculated patience that she _waits_. Biding her time _well_. Completing schoolwork, procuring the necessary objects to explore through minor thievery, and utilizing her father's constant need to _help_. Lami is all of six years old and understands the limits of her physique, understands that her constitution is weak and that should _anything_ bad happen… she's not certain she has the ability to avoid it.

So instead she _plans_.

Watching, _listening_ , paranoia and excitement dancing at that base of her stomach.

Soft whispers in the back of her head claim that the teachers _know_ \- that she has found a secret, one that the staff of the school might not even _know_ about.

Logic dictates that there is no proof that anyone knows _anything_ ; how could they know that it is _Lami_ who has discovered the tunnels? Where is the evidence that the tunnels themselves are a secret or a taboo? Perhaps the upper years use them to get around- or even the teachers, cleaners, and other personnel that work at the school. Baseless assumptions will get her nowhere- the only way she can learn the mysteries that surround the St. Monroe's is to jump straight into the thick of it.

When there are so many uncertainties, secrets, and things that feel _off_ about her personal life, about Flevance about- _everything_ , it feels _brilliant_ to be able to get her hands on a question that haunts her thoughts and _do_ something about it.

Looking at the tunnel now, from the bottom of the _steep_ staircase, Lami surmises that the passageway she is in has not been used in some time.

Her main point of evidence is the heavy layer of dust that coats the floor: flat and clear as undisturbed snow. The air itself seems _thick_ , in a way. It's a somewhat unsettling sight; the cobwebs that line the corners of the ceiling and floor, the illumination of her candle creating ominous shadows that curl and stretch before her. But also... quite curious. She gives the pipe a half-hearted inspection from where it pokes out from the ceiling but otherwise gives it little attention. The tunnels must be maintenanced, at some point, right?

Taking her broomstick in hand, Lami waves it in front of her to catch the few webs that dangle down to her height. The ceiling itself looms low; only a meter or so taller than herself. From the limited light of the candle, she can't see any insects or arachnids of any kind but she keeps a careful lookout _just in case_.

Lami clutches the candle tightly in her grip as she moves forward.

All in all the tunnel… Looks like a tunnel. Brick walls, ceiling, and floor. Dirty, unused, secluded. Only the distance trickle of water to accompany her as she weaves between cobwebs that have fallen into disuse. It's chiller than expected, causing goosebumps to coat the skin underneath her shirt and pants. She should have taken this into account, given the change in season on Briar North.

Ten minutes is spent shuffling forward slowly in the dark; waving away cobwebs, startling once or twice when the telltale skitter of a pest surprises her or the sudden panic that causes her heart to spasm when she thinks something that has _fallen_ on her. Then, Lami comes to a split in the road.

Resting the broomstick against a wall, Lami pulls out her notebook. After a few seconds, she realizes that she cannot hold a candle _and_ write, so she crouches down once again and settles her light onto the ground. She should _really_ invest in a flashlight, she knows, however, it'll be difficult to find an excuse to have one. None of the students are supposed to be out of bed after curfew, so the demand for a flashlight might be met with skepticism. A headlamp would be even _better_ to explore with, or even a _lantern_ , but she'd definitely be met with suspicion if her father sent one.

With a quiet sigh Lami pulls out a pen and starts to draw a makeshift map; forwards, then an interception where she can only continue forward or turn to the right. It's not a pretty depiction by any means, but so long as it's functional she doesn't care.

Putting her supplies away she once again reaches for her broomstick and candle before continuing forwards.

.

.

.

She doesn't make it much further that night; only continuing until the tunnel she's in ends.

Three more crossroads are added to her map; right, left, left. She doesn't explore any of them, not wanting to get lost or find herself in a part of the school where she is not allowed to roam. Instead, she backtracks and escapes through the false wall by the library. Lami pauses and waits until she's certain no one is around, then silently makes the familiar route back to her dorm.

.

.

.

The tunnels fill her day to day thoughts.

It's a nice reprieve from the _boredom_ or _panic_ that swings back and forth in an aggressive game of _ping pong_.

Instead, she finds herself in her classroom, staring out the window and wondering just how _expansive_ the tunnel system is. Does it simply cover the school, a section of the school? Or does it stretch out past the sport's field and the gardens? Maybe it's wishful thinking that has her wondering if the tunnels reach the port, if they can afford her any freedom outside the strict confines of the school.

Instead, she finds herself in the hallways, hands trailing against the plaster of a wall as she ponders whether any other secrets are hidden beneath the carefully manicured exterior of the school. Are there hidden hallways? Secret rooms? Are there floors that can only be accessed through certain means? What would the blueprints of the building look like, if she were to get her greedy, inquisitive, hands on them? Would they be altered in some way? The secrets of the school tucked away from official records?

Instead, she finds herself in bed, late in the night, questioning the implications of the tunnels. Was it once a mansion of some high-class noble that was repurposed into a school? What happened to this island, why was a school dictated to be put here? Was it bought out? Had the building been built with the intention of it being a school? She knows that it's a post-void century establishment, but other than that there are no _dates_ other than an elusive " _for centuries"_ tagged in the pamphlet. What was the purpose of building a system beneath? Was it to carry supplies from one part of the building to another, used as a way to transport coal to feed the fireplaces and furnishes? Did _servants_ roam the dingy and sunken corridors to escape the vision of their lords or masters? An escape route; a way to confuse intruders?

Day in and day out, she wonders and wonders and _wonders_.

.

.

.

Lami traces her steps from the night before; following the tunnel forward to its end, skipping the three possible turn-offs for the time being.

This time she sports a green wool sweater given to her as a present for her birthday. Lami learnt her lesson from her past excursion, remembering her jaw _clicking_ from the cold even once she got back into bed. Getting _sick_ is the absolute _last_ thing she needs right now (or for the next _twenty_ years) though it pains her to get the sweater dirty.

( some sacrifices need to be made, however. )

Peering forward into the dark, she carefully makes her way to the end of the adjoining passage with her trusty candle and broomstick in hand.

The air smells.. _earthier_ the further she goes in, if she were to pick a word to associate to the _shift_ in the environment. Like wet soil. She gently places a hand on a wall, the brick cool against her palm. It's not wet, though, and neither is the ground- all of which she takes that as a welcoming sign to continue.

Crouching down, Lami pulls out her notebook and pen and marks down a left-hand turn for this intersection. She has to tilt the notebook towards the candle to look at her past progress and she grimaces. Already she can tell that the map is not accurately proportionate, but that's something that she can deal with later.

Putting her notebook and pen away, Lami turns to the left to follow the tunnel. It's about the same length as the past one, she thinks, mentally calculating how many steps she has made in each tunnel. By the time she gets to the end, there is once again a left-hand turn. Lami continues once she has taken the time to mark the new passage down on her map.

Lami suddenly _jerks_ to a stop before she trips and crashes into what looks like a cave-in, candle wobbling ominously at the movement.

Lami leans against her broomstick with relief for a short moment while carefully repositioning her light. Curiosity gets to her before her breath can and she carefully steps forward so the candlelight can get a better view of the mess before her. There's no other way she can explain the tumbled debris that blocks her path; she eyes the fallen rock, dirt, and what looks suspiciously like remnants of a wall. Raising her candle higher in the air so she can get a better look at the ceiling, she sees multiple holes where brick used to be. But no light.

Where exactly in the building is this? Or is it outside the building?

Admittedly, she is a little lost. Half of the school she hasn't explored yet, too young to venture into the upper year's wing of the school. Even if she _did_ know the full layout of the school, she guesses that it would be difficult to pinpoint where she is when all the tunnels have looked the same so far.

With a sigh, Lami marks a scratchy line in her map to indicate a cave in.

Not wanting to muddle with the collapsed roof and risk the consequences, she backs away slowly and follows her tracks back to the entrance.

For the remainder of the night she explores until wax starts to drip onto her fingers. _Hours_ are spent patting at the brick walls of dead-ends and carefully maneuvering around cave-ins. When she trails back to the original entrance point in the administration building it's with a lingering sense of disappointment that no other doors or walls were found that night.

What she does find, however, when she emerges from the false wall in the administration building is that dawn has already risen, painting the front foyer with pink and orange light.

.

.

.

Lami can't quite look at her Arts teacher the _same way_ now that she knows _what_ shenanigans go on behind the carefully constructed screen of professionalism.

As opposed to Lami not being able to look at her out of- embarrassment or _fear,_ even, at the thought of being caught- No, instead she finds herself _watching_ her teacher's movements with a curious eye. Mentally cataloging the woman's day-today temperaments, _theorizing_ what else is going on behind the scenes.

She has never thought much about the teachers. Most of the students come from well-off households, so most of her contemptuous thoughts have been reserved for them. But what of the teachers? Are they simply here for the income? Professionals in their subject, sought out for the quality of their knowledge? Lami can only assume that teachers in boarding schools receive a hefty salary. Especially one, such as St. Monroe's, which is allegedly regarded as _influential_.

Are they alumni? Is nepotism prominent in the hiring process? Are they individuals who thoroughly believe in perpetuating a classist society, giving grander and better education to the rich while at the same time equating the wealthy as _excellent_ \- with the subtle insinuation that those who cannot attend are the opposite?

No, she has never thought much about the teachers.

She has thought about The _President_ ; about her cold eyes, about her office, wondering how _Barlow_ knows her- dreams where she is sitting at that _desk_ writing tests that aren't in this world's language, a sharp voice cauterizing her with every intentional misstep.

But now, she watches. She picks up on clues hinting to backgrounds, quiet rivalries between the different factions of the school. On nights not spent in the library or beneath the school she finds herself camped in the administration building, a book wedged into the false wall to keep it open. Waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for someone to pass by. Sometimes the night goes by utterly silent, hours spent writing in dim light or scribbling numbers into logic puzzles. Some nights she overhears conversations that are just simply _confusing_ without the proper context. Other nights she finds herself amused by the gossip she hears. Occasionally she picks up on interesting tidbits of information; mostly news coming from outside of Briar North.

It's funny, she thinks, that people are the same no matter where you are.

.

.

.

The first _secret entrance_ she finds leads to a building she has never been in before.

One night it takes all of _two minutes_ to find a second staircase, having chosen a route closer to _her_ false wall. Much like the one she had found before a steep staircase guides up to a wall; this time made of _wood_. Vaguely annoyed at herself for not checking the passageways closest to her original entry point, Lami throws herself into trying to figure out a way past _this_ wall. One of the panels gives way after about five minutes of inspecting, the quiet scraping of wood whispering in the air as she turns the panel around into what looks like a lever. Lami pushes the door, not entirely surprised when it _gives_ when she applies weight, and enters slowly.

It becomes immediately clear to Lami that she is in one of the dorm buildings. A fireplace gives the large room a warm glow, the light of the fire reflecting off of the tables and couches that litter the area. Paintings adorn the walls in a clustered fashion, vases and flowers centered on all the tables for decoration, thick rugs splayed out on the floor. The common room is much cleaner, and larger, than the one that Lami is familiar with. Not to mention furnished with more embellishments; pillows, blankets, candles, and lamps coating the space at an excessive degree.

Feeling curious, she sneaks around the room and eyes the large bookshelf in the corner. Thoughtlessly moving forward, hoping to get a look at what books they have, Lami startles at the sound of a loud _snore_.

Whipping around which a hand clutched to her chest she sees an upper-year student sleeping on one of the couches. For a stiff moment, Lami believes that the student is going to wake up. The girl rolls over onto her side with a quiet grumble, an arm flopping off of the couch as she moves. Sighing with relief once the threat has passed, she tiptoes closer. Lami deduces from the girl's appearance and uniform that she must be one of the older students of the school. The impulse to find a blanket and tuck her in comes as a surprise and Lami quickly banishes the thought away with quiet embarrassment.

Deciding that _this_ area might be a better place to explore when no one is around, Lami creeps back to the wall she entered through. It takes longer to find a way to open the door from this side, due to her shaking hands, and resolves to go to bed prematurely that night.

.

.

.

A hand slaps down on the desk in front of her.

Lami jerks upward, and blearily blinks up at the teacher who is giving her a rather impressive scowl.

"This is the third time this week, Trafalgar!" Her etiquette teacher snips, " _What_ must I do to keep you awake?"

Lami hadn't even realized that she had fallen asleep in the first place. Admittedly, she hasn't been sleeping much. Between the tunnels and the library... there is simply _too much_ to do, to explore. The thought of simply _going to sleep_ felt like a waste of time when there is suddenly something _malleable_ she can _really_ sink her teeth into. Even once she has tucked herself into bed, Lami finds her thoughts elsewhere until the sun has risen and she's struck with the sudden understanding that she has pulled _another_ all-nighter. In the span of a few months, sleep has become an _option_ \- not a necessity.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Law would have a field day if he were to see her in this predicament.

"Well?" Her teacher says when Lami forgets to reply.

Words fail to come to her mouth as her brain sluggishly attempts to pull together words that might appease her teacher.

"Um." She starts- then immediately realizes this is the wrong way to preface her argument as the other girls in her class start to snicker, "... Sorry."

"' _Um.'_ " Her teacher exclaims as her hands fling into the air, "' _Um_ '!" she repeats like the students didn't hear her the first time. Pinching her nose in exasperation, the teacher exhales long and slow, "Oh, what am I to do with you, Miss Trafalgar? A year and a half I have taught you, and _still,_ you have the audacity to say ' _um_ ' in my presence! At _least_ have the sensibility to _pretend_ you care about my class. My _word_."

Lami also dares to believe that her teacher is being a _tad bit_ dramatic about this.

"I _simply_ cannot let this go. Not this time! Miss Trafalgar you have gone too far! I'll see you in detention for the next week!" Her teacher continues, voice shrill in her distress, "Oh, I will make a lady out of you, misses! I have faced _far_ worse challenges!"

Body sagging with disappointment at a week's worth of lost time, Lami watches as her teacher claps and turns to the class as a whole.

"Stand up, stand up! I suppose now is as good as any to start with Aruvian Dancing. Pick a partner and follow me to the dining hall."

Lami sighs and listlessly picks herself up from her seat. _Dancing_. Gee, _just_ what she needs. While a stubborn part of her rejects the thought of learning how to dance, believing it to be a _triviality_ , Lami cannot allow her prejudices to blind her. Physical activity can be helpful, _dancing_ has many skills associated that could be useful.

 _Stop being sour_ , she tells herself as she asks the girl closest to her to be her partner.

Despite this, Lami spends the rest of the class trying to come up with replacement lyrics for a song she once knew.

.

.

.

( " _Let's commence with etiquette, to defeat ill manners_

 _Did they send me peasants, when I asked for birds?_

 _You're the rudest party I've ever met_

 _But rest assured, before I am through,_

 _Misses, I will make a woman out of you-_ ".

Is all she gets through before frustration over girls stepping on her toes causes the melody of the song to slip from her head )

.

.

.

Over the course of a couple of months Lami discovers many cave-ins, dead ends, and corridors. While frustration builds at the lack of _discovery_ , she fleshes out her map and spends _weeks_ measuring the tunnels by stride length. Many nights are then spent in the library doing minor calculations as she recreates her map to be more proportional in size.

Most of the secret entrances she finds are in rooms or buildings she has no recollection of; trap doors Lami has to _climb_ up through that lead into locked rooms, crawl spaces that she is too scared to trespass _just_ yet, more walls that open up into common rooms, a wooden door she needs to pry off to enter into the basement of the dining hall-

While most of these discoveries are _fun_ to find, it's with a blinding sense of _glee_ that she finds a false wall leading to _her_ residence building. A life-size painting of a small girl with a balloon acts as a door, staring and _staring_ at anyone passing by. Lami had always thought the painting eerie to look at, the girl's dull lifeless eyes always seeming to reflect at her. After some time experimenting, she discovers that a button behind the frame allows for one to _roll_ the painting out. If the layers of dust in the tunnels didn't indicate disuse, then the fact that the floor has no visible signs of wear from the wheels attached to the bottom of the painting _does_.

Moreover, with the finding of the painting, it means that Lami can go into the tunnels whenever she wants. For months she has maintained a cautious approach to sneaking around, knowing that she would have to precariously return to her room through the administration building. But not anymore.

For the first time in what feels like _ages_ , Lami _grins_.

There's no need for restraint anymore; she'll only get a slap on the wrist for getting caught in her common room.

What an _extraordinary_ feeling to have.

.

.

.

One night, not too long after finding the door behind the painting, Lami stumbles across multiple _peculiar_ discoveries.

The first being a _rusty_ locked door. Although she tries to break the lock, her attempts prove futile. The small barred window is too high up for her to see through and when she does manage to pull herself up to peek over the edge, it simply looks like another tunnel. One she has not discovered, yet. She marks the door on her map with a large question mark, wondering where the tunnel could _possibly_ lead to and why _this_ is the only _locked_ door she has run into.

The second is a winding staircase leading up to a hallway.

Just a hallway, she realizes after spending the better part of a night walking up and down with her hands pressing on the walls and pulling at candelabras. Trying to find the _trick_ that defines the usage of the hallway, trying to find where it _leads_. No doors, no windows, just a long room with confusing adornishments. But that night, nor the next, does she find any clues to indicate its purpose.

.

.

.

Lami's grades don't drop but her investment in her classes certainly _does_.

She can't help the indifference she feels when a teacher sighs their disappointment in her lack of effort or berate her for her idle mind.

There is no point, to her, to use her "full potential" in a place like _this_. A half-way point; a safe place for her to waste time while the _storm_ (fire, death, _disease_ ) happens elsewhere. So long as she does enough to keep her slot at the school, and do _well_ for her parents' sake, she doesn't particularly care about her studies or what her teachers _think_ about her. Their disappointment in her is not going to affect her life at all in the grand scheme, her grades at this school is not going to aid her when she is a vagabond on the run. Her lack of concern certainly shows in the way she conducts herself in class; the slow, consuming, cloud of _boredom_ that fogs over her mind.

However, Lami is smart enough to keep her mouth shut. To apologize. With enough practice, she learns the words needed to get a teacher off her back, the _right_ way to emphasize her words, and use her tone to shape the faux-context her " _story"_ gives. She ascertains the best way to widen her eyes, the tactful art of looking away at _just_ the right moment to feign vulnerability. Discovers that _subtle_ movements tend to be the most successful.

It's becoming frighteningly _easy_ to lie to people she doesn't care about, Lami realizes one night.

And she's not sure _what_ to think about that.

.

.

.

( she's six years old and she doesn't need a hand to count how many people she has been honest to;

 _zero_. )

.

.

.

There's a distinct _chill_ in the air that remains in the morning, even once the snow melts away.

A whistle blows from across the field, her fitness teacher yelling out for the students in her class to stop slacking and get ready to do laps. Grumbles are the only reply given by a majourity of the class, girls standing up from where they had been laying down after a long session of stretching. In contrast, Lami _gladly_ trots up to the starting line of the track.

The sport's field is… surprisingly nice, for a school that is supposed to emphasize lady-like qualities. Despite never seeing any garden-workers or groundskeepers, the grass that surrounds the large oval track is always flush and cropped. Which is, to Lami, very curious considering _winter_ has only _just_ receded. Very pretty, all things considered, with the _forests_ that act as a fence and the quiet peek of the ocean if looking at the right angle.

Of all her classes, fitness is the only course she actively _pushes_ herself. Sure, most of the time they play _games_ and do warm-ups. However, she holds onto the belief that every bit counts, that every stretch and every lap _counts_. Lami needs to be _fit_ , needs to be _healthy_ \- she knows that her disease could chip away at her constitution until there is _nothing_ but lead and death left of her white ridden corpse. She doesn't want this to happen; she refuses to entertain the thought, nowadays.

Lami would throw herself into a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, a hundred pull-ups- if she thought it _healthy_ for her body, at this age. And maybe she's worrying about nothing; maybe she _could_ dive straight into heavy lifting and running ten kilometers _now_ if she wanted to.

The science of this world may be _off_ but she does _not_ have enough faith that she wouldn't _destroy_ her joints in the process. Maybe in the future; when her body has grown more and can handle the rough treatment better.

In the meantime, she overexerts herself in her fitness class. Running and running until her lungs _burn_ , until the muscles in her thighs and calves stiffen, until she's bent over with sweat staining her back and sides. It's gross and it's hard and she's the _only_ one who is putting _effort_ into the class, but she doesn't care. She simply wipes the sweat from her nose and continues, accepting the approving pat on the back her teacher gives her.

She doesn't stop there; Lami signs up for intramural sports and spends her lunchtime learning odd new games, unflinching as she throws herself at the older students in the league. Begrudgingly begins to learn the variant dances (and comes to realize how _exhausting_ it truly is.)

It's not enough; but it'll never _be_ enough.

Even now, she can tell that there's something _insatiable_ growing inside of her.

.

.

.

It's to Lami's surprise when a letter from Law comes to her, completely unprompted. As she has yet to respond to the letter sent from him three weeks prior, along with their ongoing struggle with honest communication, and not wanting to be the first to Give In and break the cycle... It's a curious thing, to see him extend this sort of initiative.

Accepting the letter from Ruth, Lami spends most of the day pondering what might be inside. She doesn't want to open it in public while in class or eating, preferring privacy when handling such matters, but the budding interest gives way to impatience as the day draws on. What could be important enough for him to reach out like this?

Practically throwing herself out of class towards her dorm room, Lami all but runs through the halls until she has settled herself at her desk. Taking out her letter and ripping the seam on the left side of the envelope, she carefully pulls out his message;

 _Father purchased me a scalpel for my birthday._

 _I know because I found it hidden in his desk drawer._

 _It is a poor replacement for a sword._

 _I suppose it will do._

 _For now._

 _\- Law_

Lami spends about five minutes facepalming before quiet, unbidden, laughter finds itself spilling past her lips. It rises to a crescendo as she curls herself over her desk with shaking shoulders, hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the noise. She can just imagine Law sneaking into their father's office; though she's not sure what his original intention, his _motivation_ to do so, could have been. Wiping her eyes and face once she has calmed down, Lami spares the letter a fond look.

Only her brother could make an innocent complaint (joke?) sound like a threat.

Pulling out her writing supplies, she dedicates herself to responding to her family as soon as possible.

.

.

.

Near the end of the year, Lami discovers a secret passageway into the library.

It's entirely by accident and completely a mistake on her part for being too distracted trying to read a book. An interesting find, no doubt, though the language used is more complicated than expected. Repeating a sentence to herself over and over again, trying to work out the meaning, Lami walks the now-familiar route to the false-wall in the administration building until she runs face-first into a wall at a left-hand turn.

With a yelp Lami reels in the dark, her candle slipping from her hand and dropping to the floor. It's with a sudden panic that she realizes what she has done and the light flickers out, sending her into _darkness_.

Breath quickening, she immediately falls to her knees with her hand searching for the telltale metal or wax of the candle.

She finds the candle holder easily enough, but the candle itself has snapped off.

Squeezing her eyes, Lami tells herself to _breathe_ and reaches into her bag for an extra.

Months in the tunnels have increased her tolerance to moments like these, but evidently, exposure therapy doesn't stop the discomfort that clutches at her chest. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing but her own quickening breath, feeling the rough brick against her knees, smelling and tasting the dust that ages the air. No, it doesn't stop her from imagining what _suffocation_ might be like, what it _feels_ like, how _easy_ the walls could cave in, closing in on her until she cannot _move_. How far beneath the ground is she? Six feet? How she fears the thought of being buried alive, death reclaiming the one who got away.

( oh, how vaguely familiar the _heavy_ weight of the dark is )

Claustrophobic thoughts causes her hands to shake, dizzy despite the effort to push through her own mental barriers. This isn't a sustainable line of thought, she can't afford to be scared of death or the _dark_ or the incongruous _weight_ of everything, but it's the last thing on her mind.

Once grabbing hold of a new candle she renews her efforts to find a matchbook. It takes three tries before she manages to light the wick.

And a long, long, moment before she can gather herself together.

It's there, sitting on the floor, that she _notices_ something.

Bolted against the corner, almost indiscernible in its age, a ladder leads up to the ceiling. Curiosity gets the better of her, as always, rising on wobbly knees to raise her candle to get a view of where it leads.

There's a hole in the wall, approximately a meter wide.

Picking up her book from where it fell, Lami tucks it away and approaches the ladder. Grabbing one of the bars, she slowly makes her way up to the top. Feeling at the ceiling, she realizes that it is made of wood and pushes up with one hand while using the elbow of her other to balance herself. It takes a few attempts to lift the boards and slide the panel over the edge of the entryway.

Climbing the rest of the way, Lami finds herself underneath a table.

Sitting on the edge of the trap door, she leans backward and peers through the dark. Bookcases line the walls, and Lami doesn't hesitate any longer- scrambling to her knees and crawling out from underneath the table.

With a wide, wide grin she finds herself in the library.

.

.

.

Lami is entering the dining hall one evening when a sharp familiar voice interrupts her.

"Miss Trafalgar." The President greets in a curt tone from where she is lurking beside the large wooden doors, "Your school year is going well, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am." Voice coming out stiff, uncertain about _why_ the school's leader is suddenly speaking with _her_.

It's not uncommon to see her prowling the halls, giving out misdemeanors and lashing out detentions for those being " _naughty_ ". And, truthfully, Lami has heard of students who engage in casual conversation with either the deans of the dormitories or the president herself. Perfectly innocent conversations. However, Lami's only interaction with the woman had been the impromptu exam a year prior and she can't help the suspicion that creeps up whenever the older woman is around.

"Excellent." The President responds, almost as stiff as Lami.

There's a pause, and it takes Lami a moment to realize that the woman has ended the conversation. Holding back a sigh of relief, she's about to nod her head in farewell when suddenly;

"What's that on your shoulder?"

Lami blinks and looks down.

 _Dust_ sprinkles over the fabric of her sweater vest and shirt. The familiar feeling of anxiety catches her by its grips as she thinks _oh shit_.

Sure, going through the tunnels during the daytime is risky but she hasn't been caught _before_ -

Sharp blue eyes examine Lami like she's something to _decipher_ , the President's mouth pressed into a hard line. A wrinkled hand reaches forward to brush at the offending disorder of her uniform and Lami panics.

"Just dust, ma'am." She chirps, sweeping at her uniform repeatedly as she stares up at the President with her best impression of innocent eyes. "Must have brushed up against a window sill on my way over here. My apologies."

The way the President continues to peer down at her makes Lami's hackles rise. Smiling up at the woman, she does her best to portray the obliviousness her year mates exemplify. They continue like this, locked in a staredown, for an uncomfortable moment.

"Hm." Is all she's given as a response, "Continue as you were, then."

Nodding, Lami turns on her heels while internally sweating buckets. The President totally, completely, did _not_ believe her.

As Lami retreats towards the banquet table, she overhears the President greet other students as they enter and she is hit with a realization: she probably just should have kept her mouth shut.

.

.

.

The sport's field smells like fresh rain the morning she catches sight of the President during her fitness class. Hands tucked into the pockets of a light-coloured petticoat, grey hair _down_ and swaying slightly in the wind from where she watches on the sidelines.

It distracts Lami from her stretches as she _freezes_.

The instructions of her fitness teacher fade away like she has ducked her head underwater; voices distorted and muted. Lami wonders vaguely if it's just her imagination, her _paranoia_ , that tells her that _she_ is being watched. Wonders if sharp blue eyes would continue to trail after her as she runs up and down the field, if she's doing that _thing_ again that tells her if Lami (or the _thing_ inside of her) is ' _holding herself back'_. What the _implications_ might be if she _is_ -

A whistle snaps her back to attention.

"Up the field, girls, you know the drill. Run until you can't anymore."

When she looks back the President is _gone_.

.

.

.

( lami doesn't explore the tunnels or sneak into the library for the last three weeks of the school year. )

.

.

.

Lami's second year comes to an end in a very silent manner. Before she knows it, her room is packed up and her trunk is being carried out by one of Barlow's men.

It's lightly raining on the morning that Lami and six other girls find themselves getting escorted from St. Monroe's to the dockyard.

The library key still strung around her neck has a potent weight to it as she follows the entourage down the long thin road, blocked in by the large hedge maze on one side and the large gardens on the other. She had decided a week prior not to risk sneaking the key back into its proper place; now that she knows there is an alternate route she no longer cares if the stolen key is found out about or if they decide to change the locks. The tunnels have not been used in a while and she doubts that the trap door will be covered. If this year has taught her anything, it's that there is _always_ another way.

She fiddles with the key through her shirt as she walks, casting a glance behind her at the school.

Paranoia still has her by its unforgiving claws.

"Fifteen days, ladies!" Barlow hollers from the front of their group, wearing a hat with a rather extravagant looking feathers poking out of it in a plume. But even that holds nothing to the dramatic purple silken outfit she has chosen to wear. "That's over a fortnight! Settle in and get comfortable, cause you're all going to be in uncomfortably close quarters! We'll only be stopping at three islands, _no_ pit stops!"

She swiftly turns around, the wide cuffs of her shirt billowing out as she points at them, "Don't bother complaining to me about it, either!"

Lami stares with a flat expression as some of the other girls titter and shift nervously. She seriously wonders how _this_ person somehow got a job with _kids_. She half suspects that the Captain is hungover and can only feel lucky about the fact that she'll only have to spend a week at sea.

.

.

.

"Have any of you been to the Grand Line?" Lami asks the crew one rowdy night when supper has finished and most of the other girls have gone to bed. She had spent most of the night content to just sit in the corner, attention split between listening to the crew's banter and reading through a rather hefty book about marine biology and the various species of marine life forms in the North Blue.

Ashby, Goeff, and Parkland all scoff and laugh as if the thought itself is absurd.

"Aye, I have." Lucky, the second hand, murmurs with a smile. "Just for a short while, mind you."

Lami immediately leans forward, suddenly very, very interested in what the old man has to say. "Oh? What's it like? Which way did you go in from? Is the sea really _that_ trepidatious? What sort of precautions did you use against the rapid change between extreme weather-"

"Oi oi," Parkland speaks up with a wheezing laugh, "Take a moment to breathe, why don't ya?"

"You'd think someone pint-sized would have a smaller vocabulary!" Geoff mutters off to the side, hand stroking his beard.

"Trepidatious," Ashby repeats in a slow tone as if he's trying to sear the word to memory.

Lucky stares at the ceiling for a long moment and then shrugs, "It's everything you think it might be but at the same time _nothing_ like anything you'd expect. Beautiful and stunning, but a voyage you take at your own risk. No matter how prepared you are, it's never enough. Not unless you were raised there, and even then! Nothing is consistent; no trip is the same. Your confidence will be stripped bare to the bone and it's up to you to adapt or turn back."

Geoff rolls his eyes, "It can't be _that_ bad. The sea is the sea, no matter where you go."

"Aye! It's everything you've ever heard!" Lucky exclaims though he doesn't seem particularly put-off by the skepticism. "Just ask the Captain."

Everyone's eyes turn to Barlow, who has kicked back her chair with her feet on the table and a wine glass full of _grog_ in hand.

"How far did you go?" Lami asks, looking between the Captain and her Second Hand.

"Far enough," Barlow says evasively, golden eyes narrowing at her drink as she swishes the liquid around.

"Farther than I!" Lucky says with a laugh and effectively steers the conversation as he describes the hectic first night spent in Paradise.

.

.

.

When the Nameless docks at Rocky Mount Harbour, Lami is the first to slip off the boat- despite the cries of _Geoff_ , who is supposed to be babysitting the girls for the day.

Not wanting to be held back by the other's, though, she pays the man no mind.

Lami doesn't have much money on hand. Even with her birthday money and the coins her father has been steadily slipping her, there is an insufficient amount for the objects she _needs_ to buy for the future. It's a distressing predicament to be in, _knowing_ that there are _devices_ and items that she should prepare but not having the _means_ to access them.

If only she were older- if only she had _time_ , then she could get a _job_ , get the necessary _supplies_ -

No if's and's or but's are going to help her.

Her eyes linger on a film camera for a moment too long and she heaves a quiet sigh. One day, maybe.

Instead, she uses what little she has to buy souvenirs for her family; nothing lavish, just small trinkets. A key chain with a fish on it for her father, a tiny crystalline sculpture of a bird for her mother, and a book on swords for her brother. Lami spends the better half of the afternoon in a bookstore debating with herself about whether she should purchase some books for herself. In the end, she decides to save her money, knowing that she will need it much more in the future.

In the middle of buying a set of notebooks, a hand clasps onto her shoulder and Parkland huffs as he says, "Ah! Here you are, you little turncoat.

.

.

.

Later that night proves to be a boisterous night for the crew of the _Nameless_. With most of the crew and passengers find themselves stuffed into the corner of an inn, taking advantage of a home-cooked meal served by the owners. Most of the adults have drank an excessive amount of alcohol, and three of the girls have excused themselves to bed by the time the sailors start _singing_.

Lami listens with fascination as the pub _lights up_ with energy, feet stomping and hands clapping as six or seven brave men and women get up and holler a series of drinking songs and sea shanties. In no time the entire establishment has joined, sparking evident joy in all in the room. None of the songs are even close to any she recognizes, though it certainly hits a nostalgic cord in her; forgotten memories of moments _just like this_ rising to the surface. Older, certainly, but nevertheless similar.

Barlow stands up once a song has ended, looking rather majestic with her posh uniform and wild mane of glossy red hair behind her. She's not a very good singer, Lami realizes, and she can't help but laugh and clap as the captain of the _Nameless_ starts to chant a _raunchy_ ballad that has nearly everyone in the room in stitches.

Not exactly appropriate for the children still lingering, but amusing nonetheless.

The night continues like that; song after song, drink after drink. Lami is satisfied to simply sit and listen while sipping on water and trying to memorize the choruses of the few she thinks Law might like.

Everything halts to a skittering stop when midnight hits and most of the civilians have gone home. With only a few stragglers and the _Nameless_ crew to witness Barlow turns to the four remaining students and says, "Well, how about you lot? Got any songs for us?"

One of the girls, a fourth-year, turns a beat red and shakes her head viciously. Lami's classmate does likewise. However, the first year _eagerly_ stands up and sings an off-key rendition of a lullaby from her island.

"You got spunk, kid!" Barlow hoots out while ruffling the younger girl's hair, who in turn grins widely at the redhead.

"How about you, princess? Got a tune for us?"

Suddenly, Barlow looks less _majestic_ and more like a _traitor_.

"Oh. No, I couldn't." Lami responds, waving her hands in front of her. She can't hold a tune for her life, something that Law has given her grief over.

"Are you really a princess?" The first year asks in a whisper, eyes wide with surprise.

"Oh, no. Definitely not." Lami murmurs back, fidgeting uncomfortably at the mere _thought_. "She's just making fun of me."

"Come on, Trafalgar! I'm sure you've got one or two tucked in that mighty brain of yours." Ashby teases, also suddenly revealing himself as a _traitor_.

"This is peer pressure…" Lami complains loudly, causing a series of laughter. She fidgets, because she actually knows an entire _world's_ worth of songs that no one here knows. So many wonderful songs-

"How bout this-" Barlow says with the wag of her eyebrows, "I'll give yea a beer."

"Now you're _actually_ doing something illegal," Lami says in a flat tone, "Or giving false promises."

Barlow simply tilts her head back in laughter.

"I'll sing a song for that price!" Parkland booms, raising his mug.

"No one wants to hear you sing anymore, you slug!" Barlow yells back, sending the entire crew into a series of hoots and snickers.

"I'll accept a book for my participation," Lami says with a sniff, tilting her chin up once realizing the bargaining potential. "Just.. Give me a second."

"Oi oi," The captain starts, "Who said anything about _that_?"

"Deals a deal, Capt!" Ashby accuses, ensuing a squabble between the two.

But Lami doesn't respond, distracted as she attempts to translate the few drinking songs that she remembers. Most of them are fairly difficult, considering most involve a city that no longer exists, but suddenly a song clicks; easy and repetitive.

" _The work was hard and the wages low,_

 _Leave her, Johnny, leave her._

 _I guess it's time for us to go,_

 _And it's time for us to leave her._

 _Leave her, Johnny, leave her_

 _Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her_

 _O the voyage is done and the winds don't blow,_

 _And it's time for us to leave her._ "

On and on the song goes and once she is done silence reigns over the room until one of her schoolmates speaks, "Why does he need to leave her? Can't he just come back?"

"It's about a ship.." Lami awkwardly replies, not liking the sudden dip in the atmosphere. Maybe she should have chosen a song more upbeat, like Randy Dandy-o or Drunken sailor- classic songs she doesn't think she will _ever_ forget. "He's not leaving a woman; it's a crew telling themselves they need to give up, _leave_ , a ship."

"I've never heard that one before," Barlow says with thought, staring at Lami with renewed interest. It could also be the excessive amount of wine she has drunk. She then throws her head back and says, "Never pictured you as the tone-deaf type!"

"You're one to talk!" Lami snaps back, feeling childishly vindictive.

A high pitched whistle blows, and everyone's attention is suddenly diverted to Lucky, who is clapping excessively. "Don't listen to her, kid, that was wonderful!"

The series of hoots and whistles that cascade afterward has Lami slouching onto the table with ill-hidden embarrassment. She is the _tiniest bit_ pleased by the attention given.

.

.

.

Lami goes to bed late that night, quietly excusing herself from the room as the adults start to become sluggish and quiet in their intoxication.

Before she can leave, Lucky holds up a hand to speak with her.

"That song, it was really very nice." He says with a smile that exaggerates his crow's feet, a far off look in his eyes, "Leaving a ship; it can be quite difficult. As though you are losing a limb. The bonds you make.. With both the crew and the vessel herself- it's not something you can experience anywhere else. A visceral loss, as you folk might say."

"Okay," Lami says, blinking tiredly, thinking him drunk.

"Let me give you a bit of wisdom for the road ahead," Lucky murmurs as he leans in, cheeks flush with alcohol as an eyebrow raises conspicuously, "Never sail with a crew that won't sing."

Lami nods thoughtlessly as she humours him, "I'll keep that in mind for the future."

"Attagirl." He says, patting her on the shoulder. "It's a stormy world out there, misses, as vast and dangerous as the sea herself; gotta keep a lookout for things like this."

* * *

i've been struggling a lot with this chapter but i just wanted to get it out before i left it on the back burner for 8 months again, haha. spent too much time drawing instead, oops.

thank you all for checking in and reading!

feel free to ask any questions or check out my blog for this story at fic-pickyourpoison . tumblr . com for updates/art/etc!

[date: 2O19/O9/22] [word count: 8625]


	7. recess

warnings. / none, for now.

* * *

O6.

 **PICK YOUR POISON.**

 _recess._

* * *

"So." Lami starts as she stares out the family library's window, an arm propping up her chin. The sun has already set, stars peeking from behind the veil of clouds that have coated the sky. Her father had left nearly an hour beforehand, rushing off to the hospital with a series of apologies for leaving the two kids to occupy themselves for the evening. Since then the siblings have quietly read and studied, diligent despite the sudden lack of parental supervision.

"So?" Law echoes when Lami doesn't continue her thought. He has a textbook spread out before him and a highlighter in hand, three more of different colours section off to the side of the desk. For the past four hours he's been methodically reviewing through the text. He's ridiculously diligent and elaborate for an eight-year-old. Sometimes she likes to compare Law's neat and colour coded notes, sticky notes poking out the side of his books, with her own messy and hectic ones that have arrows pointing everywhere and multiple translations bordering the overall text.

"My principal doesn't really like me." She says, not bothering to use the title _president_ while at home. She's not sure he would make the connection otherwise.

"Why would she?" Is the blithe response he gives before leveling her with a knowing look, "What did you do?"

"What do you mean what did I do?" she spits out, head whipping around to look at him properly.

"Obviously you did something." he rolls his eyes with a small smirk, then to add insult to injury, "You're _always_ up to something."

Lami gaps at him, "What? No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." He repeats stubbornly, and continues before she can speak up against his slanderous accusation, "So? What did you do?"

Crossing her arms across her chest and slouching down in her seat, Lami is hit with a sudden regret for bringing up the subject in the first place. Pursing her lips, she looks away from her brother and gazes out the window stubbornly. Is she that obvious? No, No- she's not _up_ to something, rarely _up to something_. She's not an especially rebellious kid. To imply that Lami is always up to no good- that's simply preposterous… right? She spends too much time reading books and trying to blend in with her surroundings to be considered... defiant or badly behaved… right?

… Maybe she _is_.

Lami doesn't want to talk about this anymore.

"The posture of the guilty." Law drawls, and she can tell that he is _enjoying_ this.

"I-" She starts, then stops, then restarts, "I may have done a multiple somethings."

"Multiple somethings." Law repeats, snickering, "No wonder she doesn't like you. What kind of multiple somethings?"

Lami sucks on her teeth with her tongue as she thinks. There's probably no harm in telling Law; she only brought it up because she thought he would think it's cool. She didn't expect to be vilified for being unlikable.

Hooking a finger underneath her shirt, she pulls out the library key she almost always keeps on. Now it's a statement, she thinks, rather than a necessity. A.. trophy, for her actions, for her first misdeed. "I stole a library key so I could sneak in while everyone else was asleep."

"Did she catch you?" He asks, putting down his highlighter. She can tell she has his full attention now as he leans over the desk with both his elbows.

"No."

"Then why is that related to why she doesn't like you?"

"Well. I don't _know_ if she hasn't caught me. I haven't been in trouble with her, at least." Lami mulls, playing idly with the key in thought. "I also found a secret underground system of tunnels, which I have been exploring and mapping. I don't have any evidence to support that she knows I've found them but— do you ever just know something? Instinctively? Deep in your gut, there's just this voice telling you that this is right? That you're treading on something that is bigger than you? That-"

"You found what?" Law bursts out, practically jumping out of his seat. "Secret tunnels?"

Of course, that's what he latches onto.

Shuffling through her notebooks, she grabs the one she is using to chronicle her explorations. She pulls out the map she has slowly filled out and hands it to Law to look at while she flips through the pages for the legend that goes with it.

"Whoa!" Law gaps, "You've spent a lot of time on this."

"There is literally nothing else to do." Lami mutters, "My schoolwork is for babies and they go to bed at _ten_."

"What? That's so early." Law says as he grabs her notebook, nose wrinkling at the thought.

"I know! They're missing out on half the day!" Lami groans, hands rubbing at her face. "And then during the day, I'm wasted on… one things like etiquette. I didn't realize that the 'art' of _cutlery_ and politeness is so precise. Apparently, you can tell where a person was born by how they hold a fork, though it sounds like a bunch of— uh, it definitely doesn't take lowborn into account."

"If you don't like it, I don't see why you just can't.. stay here," Law says with a certain stubbornness, tracing the line of a tunnel with a thumb.

"I want to complete my map," Lami says, and this time she isn't even lying. Her _wanting_ to go back to St. Monroe's isn't tied to her ingrained fear of Amber Lead and _deathdeathdeath_ , but to something that is _tangible_ and teasing at the corner of her mind. "I think- I think there is something at this school. Maybe something underneath it, or, or maybe just behind the political barrier... But there's something. I can feel it."

Law sighs and slouches onto the table, chin and mouth tucked into the nook of his elbow. "I want to go with you."

"Maybe if we dress you up like a girl we can sneak you in," Lami says with a faint smirk, though school would be so much more tolerable if Law were around…

"Do you think it would work?" Law says with a seriousness that, frankly, scares her for a moment.

"Uh." Her mind blanks, "I don't know. It could probably work if we pushed a certain narrative... But I don't think Mum or Dad would be especially happy with it. You know, dreams of being a doctor and all."

"I wonder if there are any secret tunnels here…" Law mutters, fiddling with a corner of her map.

Lami thinks of the mines, thinks of the amber lead, and swallows thickly. If there are tunnels in Flevance, it's best not to go anywhere near them. They only speak of death and lead. Lami and Law already have a frighteningly short life span, and it's best they not tempt fate any more than they already have.

"I'm not sure." She says, instead, "I doubt it."

.

.

.

"Smile!" Their mother calls out to them, Den Den Mushi in hand.

Their father has wrapped Lami and Law into a bear hug, cheeks pressed together uncomfortably as he coos at them. Her brother whines, face red and attempting to hide from their mother by pulling his hat down. No success on his part, as their father tugs it back up.

Lami isn't certain what face she is making when the light flashes as a photo is taken, more interested in how the Den Den Mushi's eyes blink as it happens. Nor could she guess what her expression is for the next couple pictures, when her father presses a kiss to her cheek, stubble tickling at her skin, or when he presses a kiss to Law's cheek as her brother flails with embarrassment.

Quietly smiling, Lami tugs at the end of her sleeve. Conflicting emotions dance in her chest, warm and cold, hopeful and distraught.

.

.

.

Lami catches her mother humming quietly to herself one evening as she wipes the counters of the kitchen. From the looks of it, she has already started supper and is simply waiting until the timer on the oven indicates it's finished.

Hiding behind the door frame, Lami recognizes the tune. It's the one her mother sings whenever she doesn't think anyone is listening, when she forgets herself in quiet, lulling moments. Though a soft smile paints her face, Lami cannot help but think the slow drawl of high and low notes makes the melody itself sound somber and melancholic. Very pretty, but subdued in nature. Perhaps it would sound more uplifting with other instruments or with lyrics. After a few moments, she realizes that the song is fairly short, a few verses at most, and that her mother is simply looping the tune.

She wonders what the song means to her mother, if it means anything at all. It's not a melody she recognizes from Flevence's repertoire, nor one that she has heard from any of the other girl's at Briar North. Had her mother once dreamed of becoming a singer? Why doesn't her mother seem to want to sing it in front of other people? Is she secretly quite shy? Is her mother why Lami is tone deaf?

Questions spin and circle in her mind, as they always seem to do.

Quietly tiptoeing into the room, Lami settles at the table where a chair is already partially pulled out. Crossing her arms on the surface, she tucks her chin between her wrists and listens to her mother's melody. After a few moments, she closes her eyes, finding the hum of her mother's voice soothing along with the sporadic spray of cleaner.

The song comes to an abrupt stop when her mother rambles out, "Oh f—"

Lami looks up to see her mother clutching a cloth to her chest, leaning heavily against the counter with her head tilting downwards.

"Lami! You startled me." She says with a quiet laugh, visibly breathing in and then out, "I- I didn't realize you came in." Despite this, her mother fixes Lami with a quizzical stare, as though attempting to solve a riddle. The gaze lasts for a few moments as she disposes of her cleaning supplies on the counter, quietly biting her lip and tilting her head to the side.

"Sorry." Lami murmurs, pulling herself up enough to put chin in hand and lean forward.

"You have soft steps." She says though a smile starts to quirk at the corners of her mouth.

Does she? Lami hasn't noticed.

"I guess." She replies with a dismissive shrug. "Sorry."

Her mother sweeps towards Lami, cupping her cheeks and pressing a kiss to her forehead, "No need to apologize. It's my fault for not realizing." Leaning back she adds with a softer smile, "Though, we might have to get you a bell."

A whine is ripped from Lami's throat when her mother pinches at her cheeks and coos, wondering out loud whether to get Lami a pair of earrings or a necklace. Both hands attempting to swat away the offending gesture. She's not a cat.

"Mom..."

Taking mercy on Lami, her mother backs away with a small smile. Sliding a chair out, she sits in the seat across from Lami and says, "Did you come down here for a snack? Dinner should be ready in 10 minutes."

"Mm, no," Lami says with a shrug. "Just wanted to. Heard you singing, so I came in."

"Ah." Is her mother's lengthy response as her smile fades, quietly staring at nothing for a moment.

"What song is it?"

"It's... just a song." She says this as she looks down and picks at the sleeve of her shirt, plucking off odd pieces of lint that has gathered.

"It's really pretty," Lami observes her mother's fiddling, finding it oddly expressive. Usually, the woman is very poised and collected. Nervous might not be the correct word for it, but... Lami doesn't see why. It's just a song. "Where did you learn it? Are there lyrics to go with it?"

"Ah, well.." Although becoming extremely clear that her mother does not wish to speak about this, a smile peeks through with unwarranted fondness. Heaving a sigh, she copies Lami's posture by resting an elbow on the table and cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. They share eye contact for a long moment before her smile grows even moreso.

"You don't take no for an answer, do you?" Her mother says with such affection that it startles Lami.

"Uh. You haven't said no, exactly, so.."

Her mother laughs, velvety and quiet. "Between you and Law…" She chuckles again and trails off, "It's.. just a song my father used to sing to me."

"Oh?" Lami perks with interest; her mother doesn't speak much about her family. Her father's side of the family is unfortunately small, only a grandmother left who Law and Lami have only met twice. "What's it about?"

A faraway look befalls over the woman's eyes, staring at the table with a quiet intensity. "It's about… Waiting. Yearning."

Lami slouches back onto the table, chin pressed to the surface as she looks up at her mother. That's rather dramatic, isn't it? For someone who claims that the song isn't anything important, her mother is certainly acting like it is important to her. She wonders if it's a song she associates with her father; if Lami is unintentionally opening up old wounds by asking this. But her mother would be honest about something like that.. right?

When she doesn't continue with the explanation, Lami speaks up once more. "Waiting for what?"

"I don't know." Her mother says, looking up with another smile.

It looks sad, this smile. Perhaps a little hollow.

"It's about..." Lami doesn't need to prod this time, her mother continues. "Drifting at sea. Never bound, never chained. Embodying the freedom of the wind and the waves that wash upon the sand... Waiting, yearning, for a storm." She pauses, "Among other things. There aren't any _words_ for it; one is to _feel_ the song. Or, that's what my father always told me."

"Mmm," Lami hums, "Sounds like there's a story behind it."

"A myth, perhaps." Her mother replies idly, "Maybe I'll tell it to Law and you when you're both older."

Lami pouts into her elbow with an unimpressed stare directed towards her mother's smiling face. "Where's the fun in that?"

Shaking her head, she stands up and presses another kiss to Lami's forehead. The timer on the oven dings and her mother murmurs, "Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. Go find your brother to help set up the table."

"Yeah yeah," Lami mumbles in response, keen eyes watching her mother as she leaves. "I see you with those misdirections of yours."

Chuckling, her mother teases back, "And I see you leaving to find Law."

Grumbling and irritated at the blatant refusal for answers, she turns to her mother before she exits the kitchen. Her mother smiles, but not before Lami sees the _scrutinizing_ expression that colours her face.

Questions upon questions, Lami slinks out of the room with a _scrutiny_ of her own.

.

.

.

"The doctor says I'm allergic to peppers." Lami murmurs one morning as she and her brother sit on the plush white grass in front of the Flevance hospital. It's nice out, which is the norm for the city, and the sun feels warm on her face, "And raspberries."

"No wonder you looked like a blowfish the other night." Law snickers, picking at the dirt with his bare hands.

"Mildly inconvenient." But it also explains why she broke out in hives in the past, and it's good to know what foods she should start to avoid. "Do you know how many things peppers are in?"

"Flevance doesn't know what peppers are… you won't have an issue here." Law mutters, "I think I might be allergic to wheat."

Lami favours Law with a bland expression, "Just because you don't like bread…"

"It makes me fart." Law whines, "Like, a lot."

"A lot of things can make a person fart," Lami says with a roll of her eyes, trying to keep herself from laughing at her brother's blunt comments. "Mom wants me to do a skin prick test to see if I'm allergic to anything else, you should ask to get one too."

Law heaves a loud sigh and falls backward onto the grass, arms and legs splayed out as he peers up at the sky. "What if I'm not allergic to wheat? What if this is simply the reality I have to live in?"

Lami huffs a quiet laugh at his dramatics and side-eyes him, "I think that's the reality everyone has to live in."

"Ugh." Law huffs as he grabs tufts of grass and throws it carelessly into the air. "This sucks."

"Mm." Lami agrees, gently balling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands so she doesn't touch the grass. She wants to remind him of the tremulous waters of puberty that await him, but, well. That conversation can certainly wait. Moreover, the two of them have more pressing issues when it comes to their health— the accumulation of amber lead is much more lethal and deadly than any of their potential allergies.

It just makes her wonder; how are the doctors of Flevance ignorant of the fact that the citizens have concentrations of amber lead in their systems? The low concentrations in children can be acceptable, sure, something potentially easy to look over— but _how many_ times has it been looked over? For how many years? How many blood tests have been looked at oddly before dismissed as inconclusive? What of the adults who were born with amber lead in their veins and have accumulated more and more due to lifelong exposure to the air of Flevance? Has no one done _any_ sort of testing to the air quality?

Is it all W _orld Government_ run, as opposed to Flevance's hierarchy?

Lami wrings her fingers together, feeling more and more twisted on the inside. She's not certain if she should be more fearful of the incompetence of the adults in Flevance or the influence the World Government must have in the working industries of the city.

Her brother suddenly sits up, turning to her with a smirk. "My doctor said that I've grown _seven_ centimeters in the past year."

"Oh?" Lami hums quietly, mind elsewhere "Only seven?"

" _Only_?"

Leaning towards him she says, "I've grown _ten_ centimeters."

Sputtering, Law glares at her, "How tall are you now?"

"A hundred twenty-four centimeters." She attempts to push forward a smug face as she drawls, "You may hide behind that hat of yours, Lawless, but I assure you that I am catching up."

Staring at her for a moment with disgust, Law scoffs, "You just said so many things that are so ridiculous." He then crosses his arms across his chest, "Growth curves between sexes are different, so of _course_ you are growing faster now."

"Excuses excuses. Isn't that when adolescents hits?" Lami points out dryly.

Fidgeting, Law huffs, "It can happen earlier! That's only on _average_."

"But what if this is a pre-growth-spurt growth? Maybe I'll shoot up twenty centimeters when I become a teenager... While you're still pre-growth-spurt. Maybe I'll be able to look over your head." Placing chin in hand while resting her elbow on her knee she smirks at Law, "I will appreciate every moment of it."

"Just you wait," Law grumbles, ruthlessly tearing at the grass, "I'm going to be _so_ much taller than you."

"Maybe you should ask your doctor what your chances are!" Lami says with a semi-forced laugh, then yelps when he throws a handful of grass at her.

( _whitewhitewhite_ —

the panic is unbearable, at that moment )

"'Your doctor'" A voice from behind them says, saving Lami from having to respond while she catches the breath that has escaped her. The siblings turn to see their father looping a messenger bag over his shoulders while sporting an amusing expression, " _Your doctors_ are your mother and I."

"It's best to keep the boundaries between personal and professional life separate," Law says primly as the two children stand up from their spot.

"Well, _your doctor_ would like to tell you that he'll love both of you no matter what shape or size you come in!" Their father gushes, pulling them both into a hug. "Even if Lami ends up a beanpole towering over all of us."

Lami leans into it, humming in response. She doesn't particularly care how tall or short she ends up so long as she is alive and functional. Her standards aren't especially high, in this regard. Worrying about it now just feels like a waste of energy.

"Dad!" Law sputters, hands pulling at their father's coat in a way that implies he's not really trying to separate himself but still needing the facade of rebellion.

When he stills, Lami peeks around their father's stomach to see what shenanigans he has up his sleeve.

"If you love us regardless of our shape and size, then you should get us ice cream." He directs his pleading puppy-dog eyes upwards, which Lami doesn't think is very effective. He looks like a sleep-deprived panda. "Mom _always_ takes us out for ice cream after a checkup."

Their father tuts disapprovingly, "Lying to your father like that, tsk. You're getting bolder by the day, Lawless."

"No, it's true! Mom really does!"

"Your mother would never do such a thing. She admonishes _me_ for eating unhealthy!"

"Lami, tell him!"

"Mm." She replies, not listening as she stares at the concrete of the driveway. A thought comes to mind, "I once saw a herd of ants carry an ice cream cone right there," She points at the very spot it occurred, and when neither of them responds she continues, "They marched right by. It was extraordinary."

"...Really?" Law asks, turning to look at the spot. "Huh."

Their father is silent for a long moment as the children inspect the ground from where they are gripped at his side. He quietly laughs to himself, "Alright kids, let's go home."

.

.

.

Time flies.

Before she knows it, Lami is at the docks waiting for approval to board the _Nameless_. She finds it difficult to believe that two months have flown by, even as she watches the waves slosh against the wooden beams of the waterfront docks, as the salt of the sea wafts past her nose and the shrieking of seagulls echoes across the open area.

The clawing desperation to escape from the white city of Flevance isn't as debilitating as in the past.

Lami idly wonders if she's becoming desensitized; of Flevance, of death, of the future. It's _exhausting_ , the constant state of panic. The constant struggle to separate herself from her surroundings in an effort to save herself from future suffering; physically, emotionally, mentally. Stop, save your breath, step back, don't get too attached to those with _expiry dates_. Waiting and waiting and _waiting_ , not knowing _when_ the guillotine will drop, if she will be under its blade when the cord is lacerated.

It's exhausting, the mental circles, thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking-

Until it all just starts to stop.

Quiet, dull, the world around her slowing like she's underwater.

It's not as though she has stopped caring, she thinks as she sits down on the ledge of the dock, staring out at the empty space where the sky and sea meet on the horizon. Lami is still as motivated, still as _driven_ for survival. Still _aching_ and _angry_ at her circumstances, what she is forced into. But _nothing_ will come between her and the future. _A_ future. At this point it's simply the _truth,_ she's not going to allow anything less.

Maybe she's just become adjusted to her situation, the knowledge that she is doing the best that she can. Pushing and pushing at the fragile boundaries that box her in, _needing_ certain criteria for the future, for her survival, for her mental health.

Maybe it just… doesn't feel as real anymore.

It's difficult, _pushing_ herself and _understanding_ the weight of her future when the only signs that point to it are from a _picture book_ in a world she can't remember well. When there is no _physical evidence_ in this world that indicates that her country will perish. Holding onto a truth when everything around you is conditioning you to believe, want, hope that nothing bad will happen-

"Lami?" Her father cuts in, "Are you alright?"

She blinks, having not noticed that he sat beside her. "Mmm... Yeah. I'm okay."

He doesn't say anything in response, simply wraps an arm around her and pulls her into him.

One of her hands reaches over and grasps onto his shirt, staring out at the sea. Maybe she just doesn't want to leave behind a family who loves her, she thinks. Once.. once everything is said and done... She won't have _this_ again. A father who showers her with affection, a mother who takes _care_ of her.

Lami and Law.. they'll be on their own.

Her father is uncharacteristically quiet as he plants a kiss on top of her head. Lami can only think that she is _terrible_ at not "getting attached" like she originally intended.

.

.

.

Her first day on the _Nameless_ is unremarkable.

She spends most of the day holed up in her room, reading through some advanced anatomy textbooks her father had left her. Later that night during supper she is told that she's the first student to be picked up and that the ship will be docking at Port Lock and Raven's Roost prior to Briar North. They won't be staying overnight at any of the ports, so it doesn't especially concern or interest Lami, and she merely shrugs at the news before slinking off to bed.

.

.

.

At breakfast the next morning a question comes to mind, as is per usual for Lami. Upon finishing her meal, she puts the dishes away and sits down across from Barlow. The woman raises an eyebrow at her in response, scooping up eggs with her toast.

"Why do you transport kids to St. Monroes?" Lami asks, putting her chin in her hands with her elbows on the table.

"Oi, watch your tone. We ain't here to _traffick."_ Barlow scoffs, or maybe it's a laugh, into her food. "Why do we do anything? Money."

"Yeah, but-" Lami struggles a moment to find the proper words, Barlow does not seem like the type of woman who would be satisfied with hulling a bunch of _brats_ around. "How did you come about this lifestyle? Why do the passengers change so frequently? You seem to know the personnel at St. Monroe's personally."

"Do you ever get tired of asking questions?" Barlow asks flatly.

Lami suspects that she is hungover.

"Not really," Lami says, humming to herself. She can't help the fact that she is naturally inquisitive; wanting, _needing_ , to know more about everything. "I get more tired of _not_ having answers to my questions. It's quite infuriating, you know? Sometimes tickling your brain and just out of reach, or just. A void. Endless, who knows where the answer is?"

"And to think I thought you were shy," Barlow grumbles, hand covering her face as she groans.

"I never claimed to be shy." She shrugs. "Just quiet."

"You're certainly not quiet anymore." Heaving a loud sigh, Barlow sits up and says, "Listen up, I'm not going to repeat myself. We've got a… contract with St Monroe's. Most of the kids have parents who can afford to send their own ships, but there are a few that don't. Sometimes certain political circumstances require… transportation of the anonymous sort. Sometimes daddy's ship gets blasted by pirates and he can't get his brat picked up. Whatever the case, St, Monroe's sends me a list and I pick up whatever brat needs to be taken."

"Do you pick up all the leftover kids?" She can't imagine it; the most Lami has seen on the ship was 11 girls. That seems like such a small number in comparison to the four hundred or so students. Or maybe there really is just a handful of "poor" students at the school.

"Pah! No." The woman waves a piece of toast at her, "What do you think I am? Ole Madeline sends a platoon of ships to do her bidding, I assure you."

"Mm." Lami murmurs, nodding to herself. That makes much more sense. The North Blue isn't very small, after all. "Why do you call the President 'Madeline'"

"It's her name, isn't it?" Barlow huffs, "I refuse to call her _President_. So ridiculous. Back in my day, it was _Our Lady President_ , just imagine! So tasteless and showy."

"Back in my day?" Lami repeats, some of her long-awaited questions starting to click into place. "I can't see you attending St. Monroe's."

"Good!" Barlow hoots, stuffing food into her mouth with emphasis. "Means I've completed my life's mission. Ha!"

She tries to pry more information out of the woman, with little to no result.

.

.

.

Lami startles awake from a nightmare—

( _dark, suffocating, she can't breathe, cold cold cold cold cold col-_ )

—clutching a pillow to her face, hands shaking, _gasping_ for breath.

Erratically pushing the pillow off her bed, quietly hitting the wall with a thunk, Lami curls herself into a ball and rolls onto her knees. Heart racing and hands wringing together, she presses her forehead to the mattress.

 _Breathe_ , she reminds herself.

By the time she sits up and brushes the hair out of her face, Lami has forgotten what the dream was about. Despite this, she can still feel the icy _chill_ of it lingering in her chest as she stares blankly at the wall.

Her legs buckle when she tries to slip off the bed, arms catching the edge of the mattress before she can fall to the floor. With an aggravated sigh, she pulls herself up and gives herself a few moments before pushing off. From the porthole she can see that it's still night time, stars glittering in the sky as she wobbles to the window to inspect the weather. Clear, not a cloud in sight to mask the heavens.

Pulling on a striped green and grey sweater from her trunk, Lami tiptoes out of her room and down the corridor of the ship. Ascending the staircase onto the main deck, she looks around to see if there are any crew members. No one, as far as she can tell. Creeping forward, she sits down in the middle of the deck with her legs played out, idly feeling at the worn wooden boards beneath her.

For a while she just.. Breathes. Feels the soft wind brush against her cheeks and tousle her hair, smells the pungent scent of salt, hears the flapping of the sails overhead and the waves hitting against the side of the hull.

Laying down, she stares at the sky and its unfamiliar configuration of stars.

Maybe it's silly, but she wonders if _space_ is the same in this world as it was in her last one. If stars are balls of gas, hundreds of light-years away.

It must be different to some degree, she thinks, if there were people that once lived on the moon. The atmosphere must be different to some degree if living creatures could survive out of orbit. Not only that, but to move to earth without any noticeable drawbacks, like sensitivity to gravity, or how the humanoid body would change and alter in atmospheres without gravity…

 _What does it matter?_ She wonders to herself. There are _hundreds_ of things that don't make _sense_ in this world. The only thing she is certain of is that the list will only continue to grow the more she explores.

The sound of boots against wood is the only warning she gets before a figure sits down beside her. Looking to the side, she sees Lucky wrapped up in a bulky jacket and scarf. He smiles at her, lopsided and accentuating the wrinkles on his face.

"What's a girl like you being up at this here hour?" He murmurs, low and rumbling despite the twinkle in his eye. It occurs to her that he's _trying_ to be quiet.

"Couldn't sleep." She whispers in response, turning her head to look up at the sky once more. "Why are you up?"

"S'my duty tonight. Crows nest and all." The boards creek as he lowers himself to lay down beside her, "Beautiful night, ain't it? Not a damn cloud in the heavens to hide the eyes of our ancestors."

"Is that what you think they are?" She asks after a pause, thinking it's a rather… romantic concept to believe that the deceased find themselves among the night sky.

"Aye!" Lucky says in a hushed whisper, no ounce of self-doubt in his tone, "'Bout a dozen myths 'bout them stars up there, all right. No matter where yee go, there's always another tale to be told. Gods, spirits, manifestations of the _Celestials_ — but, aye, I believe 'em to be the remnants of the dead. Every time a soul passes they poke a hole in the sky to go to the next life, looking through to their loved ones left behind."

Lami isn't as taken by the concept but is interested in his ideology. "And what about... Science?"

Lucky huffs a rumbling laugh, "Ain't that a wee bit boring, don't ya think? The possibilities are endless, anything can be real if you _believe_ in it enough."

Frowning, she squints up, "But in that case… isn't there the possibility that nothing is real if you believe it enough?"

"Aye! That's why it's boring!"

… Lami understands his meaning; this world is malleable. The limitations aren't as pressing, _willpower_ alone can change and shape your surroundings… but at the same time, she _really_ doesn't understand.

"Star patterns are common wit, anyone with half an interest in the sea knows 'bout 'em. Can read the sky like you read those fancy little books of yours." Lucky continues, "but what they _believe_ , aye, you can tell a lot by the nature of the person."

This they can agree on, though she thinks they might have differing opinions on what the conclusion of what a person's belief _means_.

"I don't know what they are." Lami murmurs, she doesn't understand this world, and the longer she is here the more she starts to think she didn't really understand her last world either, "I don't know what to believe."

"Keep that mind of yours open, lass." Lucky says, and though she can't see his face she can _hear_ him wink, "Nothing is ever as it seems."

"Nor is it otherwise." She hums and then says. "I'll keep it open. I don't want to get tripped up."

"Attagirl."

For a while they lay there in silence, both staring at the sky. When the quiet starts to feel like a _weight_ , she speaks up, "Would you mind telling me about the... star patterns?"

"Aye! I'd be more than happy to."

.

.

.

On the third evening, Lami finds herself staring at Barlow's rather excessively decorated hat. It matches well with her lipstick and coat, but she can't help but wonder what the point of it all is. The captain, for the entire time Lami has known the woman, is avidly against St. Monroe's and what it seems to stand for: elegance, excellence, manners, etc. The woman is as brash and bold as the bright red of her hair, rude, snobbish and uncaring about what people think about her.

But the way she dresses in fine clothing, the careful way she paints her face with makeup— it simply makes Lami wonder.

"Alright alright—" Barlow suddenly huffs, whipping around to face Lami, "What is it, princess?"

It's amusing how the crew is slowly becoming accustomed to her oddities.

"Why do you dress like this?" She spits out, and then backtracks, "You're a sailor. A Captain. Why do you put so much.. effort in your appearance, to look pretty?"

The Captain raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at her, not _obviously_ insulted but clearly not appreciating her question, "Is a sailor not allowed to dress nicely? Am I not _allowed_ to indulge in the things I enjoy?"

"That's not what I meant." Lami frowns, she's not trying to gatekeep, "I just— I don't see the point. It doesn't seem efficient."

Barlow stares at Lami for a long moment, face unreadable.

"Follow me, kid." She suddenly says, turning on her heel and marching towards the Captain's Cabin. "Oi, Lucky, keep an eye out on things, will yeah?"

"Aye!"

Barlow leads Lami into her personal chamber. The excessive fine clothing and furniture shouldn't be a surprise to her, but somehow it still manages to seep in. The bed is large with a canopy, blankets upon blankets heaped upon each other, pillows overflowing onto the floor. A large bureau stands in the corner with clothes and boots falling out of it, and a vanity with a huge mirror on top of it boasts a surface full of makeup and perfume. Despite the abundance of objects, the room is still orderly and clean.

"Sit." The woman commands, pointing at the vanity chair. When Lami does as she is told, Barlow grabs another chair, flips it around, and sits on it with her arms crossed on top of the backrest. "I'm going to be nice and let you in on a trade secret, because you seem like a smart and good kid, yeah hear?"

Lami nods, though she curls in on herself a little bit, feeling inconsequential in a room full of extravagance.

"This shit?" The captain points at the vanity, "It's not efficient, you're right. Nowhere _close_ to efficient. I spend _hours_ each morning putting this shit on, hours in stores looking for the right _shade_ or the right _look_ of something. It takes _way_ too long to put myself in clothes that are worth more than _everything_ you own. It's an expensive lifestyle. It's frankly ridiculous."

But you know what? I enjoy it. I _like_ scoring through shops looking for the perfect item I want. I _like_ dressing myself and spending an absurd amount of time each morning on my skincare routine. I _like_ taking care of myself. And that's the clincher, kid. The world out there? It's not pretty. People will tear you down, just because they can. Worst comes worst, you tear _yourself_ down, just because you can. Because you gotta deal with yourself all the time. One day you just gotta learn to appreciate the small things, the big things, that you enjoy— no matter how much of a _waste_ it might appear to others. Fuck them. What does it matter?"

Personally? I like to look like this because no one knows what the _fuck_ to think of me. If they underestimate me because of how I choose to dress, that's _their_ mistake. One they'll shortly pay for. Put on a mask like this and _no one_ will be able to suss out what the _fuck_ is going on behind this pretty face of mine. I could be having the worst week of my life, but so long as I keep up the regular routine no one would second guess that anything is wrong. Dress nice, keep your space clean, stay hygienic—"

Golden eyes cut into her, quietly surveying Lami as she listens.

"I've _seen_ girl's like you. One day," Barlow starts, pointing at Lami, "you're going to come to the realization that valuing efficiency is going to make you very, _incredibly_ , hollow. Especially if you're starting this up young. One day, you're not going to be as _special_ as you are now; the higher you climb, kid, the more you'll run into people _just like you_. You're going to struggle, trying to find an _identity_ outside of the machine you are making yourself into. And I hope you never have to face that."

Unable to say anything, Lami simply stares.

"Read those ridiculous books of yours." Barlow says after a moment of silence, "Wear whatever the fuck makes you happy, whether it be those ugly wool sweaters of yours or my fucking _expensive_ silks. Be unapologetic in your interests. If those interests change? Drop it, don't live by other's expectations of you, even if _you're_ the one who originally perpetuated it. You're allowed to change your mind about things, allowed to want _different_ things for yourself as you grow up. Fuck it all, do what makes you happy— even if it's not what you're familiar with, or what others associate you with."

"And for the love of the fucking sea mistress," Barlow stresses as she stands up, "never let _anyone_ know they've gotten under your skin. Men, women, and otherwise— it doesn't fucking matter. That school of yours? It breeds puppets, and the minute you let your defenses down they'll string you up and play you like a fucking fiddle. They gobble girls like _you_ up. So keep yourself clean, make sure your clothes look nice and tidy, and down the line when the world starts hitting you— don't let _anyone_ see how fucking depressed you are, alright? They're trained for this shit. Eyes like a fucking _hawk_."

Lami can only nod. She thinks she gets it, between the lengthy and rambling lines. It sounds very personal to the woman; maybe something she has previously struggled with in the past. Barlow uses her immaculate appearance to indulge in the things she loves, but also as a means to hide behind. Self-care— used as a way for self peace while keeping up appearances to distance herself from others.

It's… fairly admirable, actually.

"Good." She huffs, then strides over to the door, "Now get the fuck out of my room."

.

.

.

Departing the _Nameless_ and arriving at St. Monroe's goes as it typically does; Barlow leads the girls to the administration building, gets impatient and walks off, and Lami waits in line for an arduous length of time. Once she gets to Ruth and receives her schedule, uniform, and room key, Barlow has reappeared with a glass of wine in hand. After a rather biting battle of sass and underhanded compliments between her and the secretary, the red-head all but drags Lami to her dorm room.

Their farewells are short, as per usual, though Barlow pauses in the doorway as she makes leave.

"Remember what I said, clear?" She turns and looks over her shoulder, "My advice doesn't typically come cheap."

With that, the woman exits as the door slams closed.

Lami blankly stares, before rolling her eyes at the older woman's dramatics. It's not like she _wants_ to get swept up in the aristocratic and classist mentality of the school. The concern is appreciated, especially given the fishbowl effect that typically afflicts settings like this, however, Lami isn't a normal six (almost seven) year old.

Huffing out a sigh, Lami drops her shoulder bag onto the bed and gets to work unpacking and setting up her room.

.

.

.

Lami's classes are fairly similar to her previous year, the only difference being the rearranged schedule and the additional Health class she has been put into.

The first two months of the school year crawl by slowly, with only her nighttime escapades in the tunnels and library to keep her sane. Throwing caution into the wind, she decides early on in the year to continue with her explorations and studies. The thought of losing at a game of _chicken_ with the faculty of the school was more than enough to convince her to finish her map, though the restlessness that settled over her during the first few weeks strengthen her resolve.

Neither the President or the dean of her dorm seem to notice anything is amiss; hearing no word of accusation from either, nor catching the President watching her from a distance like months prior.

So, she reads. Hours and hours scouring through the shelves of the library, looking for any sort of information that might be helpful, anything that might be entertaining during the drawn-out days. She reads about astronomy and the stars; throws herself into memorizing the constellations and the folk stories behind them. It's a limited field of study, or at the very least the school doesn't have very many books pertaining to the scientific understanding of celestial objects and phenomena. Lami wonders if the people of this world even _care_ about such things.

When she is not reading she is in the tunnels with a candle in hand, looking for tunnels and secret passageways she missed in the year prior.

.

.

.

One morning during their etiquette class the teacher has the students march outside in a single file line towards the gardens. Admittedly, the estate of land that St. Monroe's boasts is very pretty and obviously manicured; from the carefully sheared hedge maze across the road to the cluttered beauty that the garden and its flowers possess. Even as they walk down a path through the large park, Lami has difficulty counting the number of flora present. Flowers of different size and colour swarm her field of vision, most of which Lami has never seen before, some of which Lami recognizes from her old world.

Roses, daffodils, sunflowers— the school has obviously taken care of their grounds, though she can't help but wonder how they are managing to keep all the species thriving. Especially in a seasonal environment like this, where the temperature has already started to dip closer to freezing.

The teacher guides them to the far end of the garden's where a small lake has gathered, a fence of trees blocking them from outside view. Once all the girls have sat down in the grass (with proper posture and positioning of their legs) the teacher coughs to retain their attention.

"Yes yes, I understand that this is quite the occasion, but please settle down girls we have much to learn today." The older woman claps, backing away into a small gazebo that overlooks the lake. When she comes out she is carrying an array of flowers in her hand.

"To the untrained eye, this may simply look like a bouquet of flowers- but to someone like myself," She laughs, haughty and in puffs, "I would happen to notice the malevolence behind them. You see, girls, flowers have a language of their own. Each individual type has a meaning, a purpose. Colour, pattern, size— they all have a subtlety to them that changes the context of the intended message."

Plucking flowers from the bouquet, she hands one to each of the girls.

"Typically believed to be romantic in nature, the language of flowers is highly associated with femininity and is overlooked for such. However, I can assure you all that it is simply _not_ the case. Any language, as you all will come to learn in your upper years, has its complexities and flexibility. Although _certainly_ used to convey emotion and communicate without the usage of words, the message most often is not of romantic origin."

Lami is given a blue flower she doesn't recognize, and she fiddles with it in thought. Cryptography is certainly something that she is personally interested in, especially in the context of creating or breaking codes and secret language… However, she has never considered _this_ concept.

At face value it may seem redundant or useless- why bother teaching such a thing to young girls, after all? Yet, the possibility of nobility, female or otherwise, using flowers as a language or silent communication tool— it makes enough sense, to her.

She hasn't thought much about what she intends to do once she has saved herself from a futile death, but _this_ —

Gears turn in her head as she plucks a petal from her flower.

.

.

.

Snow already coats the ground when one afternoon Lami witnesses a large group of girls rushing out of the building where the upper-years have class. They run across the courtyard towards the administration building, their hushed whispers echo in the enclosed space.

Class should be starting up again soon, so she can't help the curiosity that urges her to maneuver through the snow to take a look. Clutching her schoolbooks to her chest, Lami hops up the marble steps to see what has garnered so much attention.

Girls of all ages huddle around the large set of doors that open into the main building. It's abundantly clear that they are attempting to be sneaky, however, the mass of them clogging up the doorway and falling over each other is not inconspicuous. Not the mention the cold air is undoubtedly leaking into the foray.

"Do you know why they are here?" A taller girl with dark hair asks another upper-year.

"No!" This one has glasses, "They just showed up."

Lami tries to slip through, too short to see what (who) they are looking at, but ends up getting pushed into the building. Glancing back at the older girls, Lami frowns at the manhandling. One of them sneers back, shrugging her shoulders like it's not her fault.

There isn't anyone immediately in the foray, the room empty and showcasing the large front doors of the building, though she can hear the President speaking off to the side.

The girl's behind her start whispering again, theorizing and gossiping. Annoyance seeps into her chest as Lami rolls her eyes. If they want to know why don't they just find out? This thought in mind, Lami steps into the building without much regard. She doesn't understand why the other students are always so hesitant to do things, why they would rather gossip than... Ask. Beating around the bush won't get anyone anywhere but moving in circles.

Turning the corner, Lami finds herself intruding on a conversation between the President and a marine.

"-we would be more than willing to—" The President stops.

 _Oops_ , Lami thinks, as the two women turn to her.

"Miss Trafalgar." The President drawls, though the exasperation is clear in her voice, "Don't you have a class to attend?"

Frankly, Lami thinks the tone the woman is using is unwarranted. None of her serious misdemeanors have _officially_ been discovered or judged for, and the few that she _has_ been caught doing should not award such a reaction.

"The bell hasn't rung yet." Lami points out, attempting to sound pragmatic.

Sighing, the President exchanges a look with the marine. Words are exchanged without speaking, and though Lami is immediately suspicious and spiked with a sudden wave of _ohno_ , the marine's lips twitch with amusement.

Turning back to Lami, the President says, "Please notify the other students to go to class before punishments are dolled out—" at this, she can hear the sound of skittering and panicked whispering "— and follow suit, Trafalgar. It would be _most_ unfortunate if I had to see you in detention... _again_."

Her first instinct is to throw back a cheeky response, but this woman is not her brother. So instead she holds her tongue and murmurs, "Yes ma'am."

"Good." The President turns to her companion, "This way, Tsuru, I'll show you where to go."

"I know where to go, Madeline." The other older woman says, voice dry, "I haven't gone senile in my old age."

Lami backs away from the odd scene of the President _laughing_ and more or less scampers back into the courtyard. She contemplates sitting out in the snow for a few minutes, but the bell rings indicating the start of the next class. As she rushes across the snowy grounds, her mind spins.

This is the first time she's seen a Marine.

How _weird_.

* * *

 **i only got through half of the scenes i wanted to for this chapter, but i'll have to wedge them into the next one. i'm hoping to keep up a biweekly schedule of sorts, since i've managed to do pretty well for these past couple chapters.**

 **i'm also thinking of doing an intermission chapter wherein we see POV of other characters once this "arc" is finished (and before the genocide)— is there anyone in particular you guys would like to see from?**

 **thank you all for checking in and reading!**

 **feel free to ask any questions or check out my blog for this story at fic-pickyourpoison . tumblr . com for updates/art/etc!**

 **[date: 2O19/1O/O1] [word count: 89O7]**


	8. median

**warning. / vomiting.**

* * *

O7 **.**

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _median._

* * *

The dining hall is filled with jubilation that night.

Most of the younger year girls remain oblivious to the significance of the _M_ _arines_ presence at St. Monroe's, Lami observes. Half of her classmates eat, seemingly uncaring or unaware of the hundred new women who have taken seats at the back of the dining hall, while the other half struggle to strain their necks to inconspicuously get a good look. Only the upper years appear to understand the importance, and even then she doubts that anyone is _really_ questioning their purpose, why they chose _here_ of all places to go (if they chose at all), why a _Vice Admiral_ is acting so friendly with _The President_. Does no one else find their comradery questionable at best? Suspicious at worst?

Lami overhears a group of upper years bemoaning the fact that it is a crew full of _women_ , not men, who have found themselves on the shores of Briar North.

Lami rolls her eyes as she passes by, her dinner plate clutched in her hands. As much as she _abhors_ the ' _not like other girls_ ' rhetoric, she can't help but find their complaints... absurd. The second-hand embarrassment is almost too much to bear. There are _dozens_ of more prevalent complaints to be had, the lack of male figures at the school should rank _low_. Settling down at the table her year mates share, she quietly promises herself that puberty will _not_ make her into a laughable caricature of a lust-ridden teenager.

( she doesn't think it'll be too difficult.

she'll be too busy trying not to die )

A loud cough catches the attention of the students. Every eye turns towards the pavilion at the front of the room where the teachers eat. The president is standing at her typical spot in the middle of the large hardwood table, hand politely covering her mouth. Once the hall goes quiet her hand falls to her side before folding to the small of her back.

"As you may see, for the unforeseen future, St. Monroe's Girl's School of Excellence will be hosting _very_ special guests." Hushed whispers break out then dwindle as the President raises a hand, "An unfortunate event has befallen upon them, but we shall make this temporary home of theirs as _welcoming_ and _accommodating_ as possible. Please be patient and gracious with your dispositions; these women have fought tirelessly to make the world a safer place for you and I. The least we can afford them, in return, is a kind welcome."

"Vice-Admiral Tsuru," The President makes a gesture to the old woman at her side, "and one of her squadrons will be staying with us here at St. Monroe's while preparations are put in place for their retrieval."

"Pleasure." The Vice-Admiral says, nodding her head from where she sits with her arms crossed over her chest. Despite her position and the nature of her short greeting, Tsuru's voice still manages to project to all in the room.

The President nods as though satisfied by the briefness of the other woman's _speech_. "Now, with that out of the way, let us continue with today's announcements…"

.

.

.

Life goes on.

Lami isn't entirely certain _what_ she was expecting when the Marines showed up in Briar North, but she expected _something_.

For the next three days, Lami doesn't see hide nor hair from the Marines, save their brief appearances at dinner time. Etiquette classes have temporarily moved to a different building while the Marines make use of the dining hall for their own purposes during the day time. Due to the snowy weather, the location of her fitness class has also moved to one of the upper years buildings. While mildly inconvenient, the change of scenery makes the day a tad bit more interesting than before. But not quite what she was expecting upon the arrival of the _Marines_.

Honestly, it's rather anticlimactic.

She finds herself joining her classmates as they huddle around a window, whispering as the class spies on the Marines stomping around in the snow. From her position, she thinks they are doing a warm-up of some sort. Most of them don't have winter gear on, which is just _sickness_ waiting to happen. Not to mention hypothermia or any other serious repercussion that results from not dressing properly. Lami doubts that _training_ in the wintertime is an especially fun activity, but she supposes that one must be well versed in battle regardless of the season or climate.

Her Maths teacher slaps a ruler on the desk, demanding the girls to return to their seats.

Lami lingers at the windowsill long enough to catch the sight of the President and Vice Admiral walking behind the long string of Marine soldiers. She _swears_ she sees them look in her direction, heart pounding as she ducks down in her seat.

( it's probably just her imagination. )

.

.

.

The cough that _rips_ out of her lungs is deep and rough, leaving aching burns trailing up her throat. There's a moment where she struggles to find her breath, bending over with her eyes shut and fingers curling into the fabric of the bed's white sheets. When she finally breaths in it's done painstakingly so; rasping and catching at the side of her esophagus as though the air itself is made of thorns.

"Yep. Definitely sick." The young nurse says as she places a stethoscope to her chest to listen to her breathe, not noticing the acidic look Lami gives her in response. "Looks like it's going to be a busy couple of weeks."

"This is the fifth girl in two days." Another nurse says in response, pouring out a spoonful of syrupy medicine. "Doesn't look like it'll be slowing down anytime soon."

The nurse with the stethoscope adjusts its position, shifting the cold metal to her ribs, "This could have been _easily_ prevented if the woman had just come to us in the first place instead of trying to _tough it out_. Marines! Now we have a potential epidemic on our hands! Can't say I'm too envious of Ruth or Yui- the _mountain_ of calls they'll be receiving over the next few weeks isn't something _I'd_ want to deal with."

"Either they come to us for every splinter and bruise they get, or they come to us on their deathbed. Ain't nothing in between. Open up." The nurse holds the spoon out to her, and Lami obediently does as she is told, "You're being dramatic. They'll be good as new by next week, maybe two."

"And _you're_ underestimating the _power_ overprotective parents have over us. This school is supposed to be isolated from the rest of the world for a _reason_."

The medicine tastes sweet, almost sickeningly so. Lami wrinkles her nose and wonders what it's made of and how effective it will _actually_ be. Given her symptoms, she expects nothing less than antibiotics.

"People get sick." The woman's voice is dry as she says this, disposing the spoon. "That's life."

The lady with the stethoscope backs away from Lami and waves it at the other woman, "And yet, people will always complain! Especially now that there is a _tangible_ object to place blame on!"

"That's practically part of the job description, Jules." She huffs out a soft laugh, "I don't think _anyone_ is going to be complaining about the Marines anytime soon... not if they are interested in remaining a prominent figure in the political world, anyway. Easier to blame it on us."

" _Ugh_. I should have married rich."

It occurs to Lami, suddenly, that this is the _first time_ that she has gotten sick in _this_ world. At least, sick with an infection or virus, as opposed to allergies rearing their ugly head. It's a fairly odd thought to stumble across. Is it normal for children to get sick? It's been seven years and the only sniffles she has any experience with is from the nighttime sorrows that creep up on her. However, that is an entirely different beast, a sickness of her heart and mind that will likely never go away. Physically speaking, she has never been _ill_ before.

But no, that's not quite correct either.

She stares at her hands and wonders idly if her skin has gotten paler.

Lami may not be _visibly_ ill, yet, but the hereditary disease eating away at her insides is no doubt present and waiting to tear the life from her. She has two years, maybe, before she has to face the harsh reality of her situation. It's a thought that used to fill her with trembling panic and dread; now it's a steady static, a voice in a void with no audience to entertain.

"Sit tight, sweetheart." The nurse, Jules, says. "Looks like you'll be staying the night. If you look better in the morning we _might_ let you go to class, but the precedent suggests otherwise."

She leaves the room with the other nurse, discussing the pros and cons of marrying the wealthy, closing the door with a click.

Lami looks around the blank, empty, sanitary room and heaves a loud sigh while falling back on the bed.

.

.

.

She wants to be at home.

The feeling lingers and aches in her chest long enough that it rivals the burn of her infection. Homesick. Who would have thought _she_ would find herself with _this_ sort of ailment? It's almost laughable, but the act of laughter makes her body spasm and sting in a way she is not yet familiar with. Muffling herself with a pillow, Lami rolls over onto her side. It's a small act, but this movement has her wheezing and feeling dizzy.

What's the point of being sick if the people who care about you aren't around to make you feel better? If her father isn't around to check her temperature and say something silly to lighten her mood? If her brother isn't here to gratuitously make fun of her for getting sick in the first place while also obsessively making sure she is comfortable and taking her medicine? If her mother can't sit at the edge of the bed with Lami's head on her lap, stroking her hair while humming that soft, sad tune of hers?

The impassive and distant nurses of St. Monroe's certainly do not make this ordeal any better, with their constant bickering and gossip. It only reminds her that if she were _home_ , her parents would do a much better job of taking care of the sickly kids.

 _Homesickness_. What an odd feeling for someone who struggles to find a place comfortable enough to call _home_ , she thinks. Flevance isn't her home, not by any means. But if home is where the heart is, she's starting to think her heart is starting to settle in with the Trafalgar family.

A sneeze distracts her from her thought process, hands fumbling with the pile of tissues on the bedside table before wiping her face. She's gotten past the stage of thinking _this is_ _gross_ and is simply waiting to feel better. How many days has it been, now, stuck in this room? She can't recall, time blending together. Lami's chest and her throat _hurts_ and a small, rancorous part of her wonders is _this_ is what Amber Lead Syndrome feels like.

Everything in this room is _white_. It's difficult not to notice, difficult to shelve away the thought for later contemplation; when she isn't addled with phlegm and with nothing to do but _this_ , think think _think_. The furniture, the floor, the ceiling. White, white, _white_ — a colour she cannot seem to get away from, no matter how perilously she tries to claw her way to safety. It's always there, somewhere, like a ghost haunting her. Teasing her. Always at the corner of her eye. Subtle reminders of what is to come, lest she be audacious enough to _forget_ or move past this unrelenting, vicarious trauma.

It's kind of funny, isn't it? Her dreams come in shades of black and white; the _cold_ , suffocating darkness that pulls and _pulls_ at her like there's a _string_ attached to her chest, like she has something that is owed, wanting, leeching, strangling, never satisfied; the blank white white _white_ that prostrates before her, endless and daunting, innocent until the splattering of red marrs it's holy surface, unblinking, impassive in the face of suffering as it weighs her down down _down_.

There is no spectrum, she thinks as she stares vacantly at the ceiling. The black and white of her dreams symbolize death — what _should_ have occurred, and a promise of what is yet to come. Boxing her in on both sides, flanking her like a sheep gone astray.

 _Something is going to be seriously pissed when I survive._ She thinks, vindictive despite the silent static that has taken root in her.

.

.

.

"Do you know what the brand of the paint in this room is?" Lami asks the next day when a nurse comes in to check on her. She's laying down in her side and staring at the wall across from her as the cool metal of a stethoscope presses against the skin of her back. No matter how hard she tries she can't get it out of her head, a worry that is constantly prickling at the back of her mind.

"Hm? I'm not sure. Some of these rooms got repainted recently, five years ago, maybe? Probably Flevian." The nurse hums and pulls her shirt down, "I hear they have some very fine paints."

Air gets caught in her throat, unbidden as her hands start to shake, as her stomach drops, "As in…"

"Oh. You're from Flevance, right?" The woman guides her up so she is sitting up properly, evidently not noticing that her limbs have gone rigid, "Must remind you of home, then."

The _nausea_ that grips her in this moment is sudden and unrelenting. There is no time for thought or time for logic, not when the world is _spinning_ , and hot hot _hot_. She is only given a few seconds notice until the familiar burn of bile sears at the back of her throat, threatening to spill over. Lami jerks away from the nurse and stumbles out of the bed, vision hazy and blurring together as she rushes to the bathroom in a blind panic. Struggling with the handle of the door, Lami pulls at it with her shaking arms, getting more and more frantic until the nurse has to open it for her.

Wasting no time, Lami falls to her knees and unleashes the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

"That's odd." The nurse says after a few moments of rubbing at her back, kneeling beside Lami. "The other patients haven't shown any signs of nausea or vomiting…"

Lami's only response is to convulse, gagging without any purchase.

( she's sick of this )

.

.

.

The administration building is quiet at night.

She knew this, of course, due to her daily nighttime escapades. There are rarely any students or personnel slinking around after twilight, only the quiet skitterings of pests and bugs to keep her company on most nights. However, usually she is gallivanting on the first floor or below in the tunnels— it's odd to walk around the third floor. The nurse's clinic, line of patient rooms, and various common rooms seem to interconnect in some sort of disconnected puzzle. The architect of the floor is curious at best, but her mind is too hazy and sick-addled to really put serious thought into how the ceiling holds itself up without caving in or why there are _so many_ fireplaces, and how the nurses get around this endless maze of rooms.

A baby blue quilt with extravagant floral patterns adorns her body like a cloak, hands balled together and clutching at the thick fabric. It's been a difficult day of feeling mercilessly cold and fiercely hot, too distracted by the various aches in her body to really put much thought into the panic that had seized her earlier that morning.

It's probably for the best, Lami thinks as she aimlessly walks around one of the empty common rooms. While the nurse was busy she stuck tape to the door of her temporary room so the latch won't close properly, back before the fever really started to hit her. By the time night had fallen there was nothing less she wanted to do than sit in a room potentially ridden with the very metal that would one day try to kill her.

There's another fireplace in this room, she notes suddenly as her thoughts come screeching to a halt, making it the eighth she has counted so far. But it looks sort of familiar, and she wonders if she has visited this room already. She pauses her movement to think, somehow incapable of doing both at the same time, and decides that she can't quite remember. They kind of all look the same, don't they?

Sitting down in front of the fire, Lami closes her eyes and enjoys the moment as the heat kisses her face. It doesn't take too long before she is feeling _too hot_ and rolls over onto her side, then quietly attempts to push herself up into a standing position.

The fire crackles behind her, almost disguising the sounds of footsteps and voices approaching from the hallway.

This fact is quickly disregarded as she spots a window, priority shifting away from _stealth_. Quietly waddling over to the window, she stares out at the front of the school; the moonlight paints a very pretty picture against the snow that coats the ground, making the gardens to the left and the hedge maze to the right look like a wonderland of sorts. Her breath fogs the glass and she draws a little smiley face. It's a little lopsided. Law would probably laugh at it, and then Lami would pretend to scoff at his drawings as though his anatomy diagrams aren't ridiculously well-made.

Pressing her forehead to the surface of the cool window, Lami decides that she will be going outside. She's not sure how she's going to do it, but her face and body feels like it's burning and she craves the chilly breeze of a winter wind. She needs a balcony. Or maybe the roof. Yes, the roof sounds most ideal.

"Trafalgar." A familiar stern voice says, "What are you doing out of bed? You are _sick_ , return immediately."

Lami simply presses her hands to the glass and says, "I'm going outside."

"Pardon?"

Scampering away, Lami makes a quick exit out the nearest door. She thinks that she has figured out the blueprint of the floor; has mastered the architect. There is no way she will be caught. She simply needs to find the closest balcony or staircase. She's not sure where it is, but she'll find it.

"What does she think she's doing?" A not as familiar voice says.

"I'm not entirely certain," The familiar voice responds dryly. "She's never up to anything good."

Lami swerves through rooms, encounters one that is not lit by a fire like the rest, then waddles into the hallway. With her sharp intellect and precise memory, she recalls the rooms she has been in before. She takes a sharp right, almost tumbling to the floor as the world wobbles around her, but she manages to catch herself before she falls face first. Continuing, with her quilt fluttering behind her, Lami takes another right. She's in another common room. It's familiar. She's totally lost them by now.

"The girl just went in a circle." A voice says to her left with evident amusement, causing Lami to startle.

A hand lands on her shoulder, pulling her back until another hand is pressed to her forehead. "She's burning up. Tsuru, would you mind hailing the nurse on duty? She should _not_ be walking around like this."

"Heh. You're ten years too young to be bossing me around, just who do you think you are, Mads?" Despite this, the woman leaves.

Lami looks up and barely recognizes the President; she looks like a completely different person with her hair down, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and wearing casual clothes. The woman nudges Lami down the hall towards her room, heaving a loud sigh as Lami sheds the quilt and makes a run for it.

Another set of hands grab her.

"Can't find a nurse." Tsuru harps. Lami swears that the woman had _just_ left and can't wrap her mind around the fact that she has apparently already looked around the _labyrinth_ that is the nurse's wing. The Marine continues without actual heat, "What kind of establishment are you running here?"

"One where no one knows how to do their job, evidently." The President huffs, pinching her nose with clear exasperation. "I'll retrieve one of the nurses. Trafalgar is in room 304 if you wouldn't mind."

Scoffing, like the thought it ridiculous, Tsuru rebuts, "I've dealt with the likes of Sengoku and Garp for _decades_. This brat is nothing in comparison."

"I can only imagine." the President says, "Even still, mind yourself. She's fairly clever."

"How unusual. That's high praise coming from you. Getting soft in your old age, hm?"

"As if." The quilt is handed over to marine, "This one just likes to get into trouble."

Feeling warmer than before, Lami leans into the side of the marine as a wave of dizziness takes hold of her. Maybe outside is not a good idea. Maybe she should sleep instead.

"No trouble." Lami mutters, "Just books."

"Stop that." The President huffs, grabbing hold of Lami's shoulder, "You're going to spread your sickness."

Tsuru waves the hand away, "Just who do you think you are? I'm not made of glass. A _cold_ has no hopes of infecting me."

"You're too careless. She's not sick with a _cold_."

"If I was going to get sick, I would have already. I've been exposed to this since the beginning. Now go get that nurse of yours before this little girl passes out on us, shoo."

There is no response besides the retreat of footsteps. Or at least, not one that Lami notices. The marine then starts to guide Lami to her room with careful steps. Upon opening the door, the older woman heaves a chuckle at the tape still blocking the latch.

"Rookie mistake on their part."

"Right?" Lami murmurs, crawling into her bed as the world around her spins and spins and _spins_.

"Stay in bed like a good girl. Your principal will be back with a nurse who will take care of you, alright?"

Lami mumbles, "Maybe not."

"Hush."

"She stares. Watches. I feel it under my skin and behind my eyeballs." Pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes she continues, "Tricky. Trouble, I'm not."

"Sleep. You don't know what you're talking about, kid."

"The walls have eyes. Ears." Lami tries again. "I feel them."

Tsuru is quiet for a moment, then sighs. "They always do, kid."

.

.

.

( when lami wakes up she doesn't remember most of what happened the night before. or most of the next day, memories hazy with fever.

but she does remember dreaming about white walls lined with black, bulging eyes;

watching.

all of them focusing on her as she moves )

.

.

.

By the time Lami recovers, the Marines have left Briar North.

Having spent two weeks in bed, she is _more_ than willing to throw herself into class with an enthusiasm she hasn't felt since she first arrived at St. Monroe's. The few days it takes for her to catch up on material is a blissful period of time; she actually feels _productive_ , challenged to juggle all of her subjects along with the new content being taught, responding to the letters her family has sent her during her time being sick—

It doesn't last.

Before she knows it, she is once again dragging herself through the day with nonchalance. Waiting, waiting, _waiting_ until nighttime so she can slip down into the tunnels continue her map or spend hours whittling her way through the books in the library. Lami actually considers procrastinating on projects and work with the hope of inspiring some sort of… urgency or _feeling_ towards the subjects, but ultimately dismisses it. She may be desperate for mental stimulation, but her pride refuses to allow her to do anything less than excellence.

The mere thought of Law snootily huffing at her (hypothetical) poor work ethic is enough to shut down the idea before it takes root in her.

.

.

.

Winter gales thrash at the windows of the library, startling Lami from a fantasy novel (' _Whispers of the Heart_ ', a children's book about a boy who can speak to Sea Kings) as the winds whistle and rattle at the stained glass.

A snowstorm has rolled over the small island of Briar North, burying the girls in _meters_ of snow. The tunnels that Lami dares to enter during the night are _freezing_ \- the cold nipping at her nose and toes, leaving a chill in her spine that refuses to leave. The crisp conditions requires her to bundle up in multiple sweaters and blankets in an effort to remain _somewhat_ warm throughout her nighttime escapades. Without the fireplaces around to warm up the room, the Library retains little heat, and the tunnels are even worse off.

Wintertime, she suspects, is not the best time to explore the passages hidden below the surface. Particularly since this year's snowfall is greater than the years prior. Until the winter gives way to spring she is more than happy to make the short journey to the library, even if the metal rings of the ladder leading up into it bite at her hands. There are hundreds of books at her disposal, still begging to be read. The tunnels can wait a few more months.

Lami turns back to her book and fiddles with the few pages still remaining. While clearly marketed for children, she has binged through the entire book in one sitting. The _creativity_ of the story and how it utilizes the world heavily overshadows the one-note characters and predictable plot lines. The book is _old_ , at least a hundred years if the publishing record is to be trusted, but the story still manages to hold its own in comparison to those made recently.

Vague disappointment spikes as she realizes that the last few pages are an etymology. It is certainly interesting to see how the language has evolved in the past century, but she would rather have a sneak peek at the next book.

Huffing quietly to herself, she shuffles out from underneath a table with a candle holder in one hand and the book in the other. Approaching the bookcase that she originally found the novel, she attempts to search for the sequel. With only the candle to provide her light, this quest proves difficult. She's not sure how much time passes until she finds a book by the same author, but after a quick look, she realizes that it is the _third_ novel in the series. Grumbling with displeasure, Lami holds the candlelight as high as her height allows to further inspect the selection on the shelf.

Of course, when she finds it, the book is misplaced and on the top shelf. Frowning, Lami looks around before backpedaling and setting the candle on one of the library's large oak tables. Then, approaching the bookcase, she begins to climb the shelf with a careful slowness. Despite her worries, it remains sturdily in place regardless of her weight. Growing more confident, she rises, and her foot takes a foothold on the seventh shelf as she reaches out to grab the book and—

The bookcase turns.

Startled, Lami frantically clings to the shelf before she can fall.

It's dark. She can't see. She can't hear. The smell and taste of _dust_ is so prominent that it sends her into a sneezing fit so bad she nearly slips off the edge of the shelf. In comparison, it's _much_ worse than the tunnels and Lami has to cover her mouth to _breathe_. Extending her foot out blindly, she ventures to reactivate the trap door mechanism. After a few tries, the bookcase spins once more, Lami awkwardly holding onto the ledge.

Grabbing the sequel she was looking for, Lami hops off the bookcase and drops the book underneath the table where her blankets and bag are stored. She has made quite the cozy nest. Blanket forts had never appealed to her in the past, but recently she has seen the light of how _wonderful_ they can be. Especially in winter conditions.

Nevertheless: the book is interesting, but not half as interesting as a secret spinning bookcase.

Grabbing her candle holder, Lami turns and faces the bookshelf with a contemplative expression adorning her face. Climbing the bookcase with one hand occupied is tricky, but she doesn't need to climb as high as she did before. She only clambers up two before carefully positioning herself so she can hold the candle holder, the shelf, _and_ use her hand to press down on the trigger. There's a section of the shelf that can be forced downwards, the faint lines the separate the wood is barely noticeable thanks to its natural graininess and dark colouring.

The candle wobbles dangerously as the bookcase spins. Lami grabs onto it before it can fall on her or any of the books, precariously hanging on to the surface. After collecting her balance, the candle is stretched out to light up the space she has found herself in.

The candle doesn't illuminate the room enough for her to gather details, unfortunately. However, she estimates that there _is_ a floor, and she won't be falling to her death should she jump. Confident in this hypothesis, she hops down to further explore.

A small alcove with walls lined to the ceiling with books, scrolls, and paper lay before her. A single table presses against the back wall, the surface practically invisible underneath all of the objects that clutter its surface. The only other notable pieces of furniture is a beaten-down chair and a small footstool that is half-hidden by a stack of books on the floor. A large carpet covers most of the ground, bitten and tattered at the edges, peeking out in slivers from under the mess. There's a globe in the corner, maps rolled out over a section of a floor, but to get anywhere close she would have to climb over several piles of books and the chair.

A modest-sized room, despite the clutter that makes it look much smaller.

Leaning down, Lami picks up a piece of paper from the floor.

A frown forms on her face when she notes that it's not in a language she is familiar with. The page itself is yellowed with age, the edges littered with holes and rips. There must be pests or bugs around, given the state of the parchment and the furniture. The dark and dry environment is _good_ for the books themselves, but when she picks up several other pieces of paper, Lami startles when one crumples and flakes at her touch. Curiosity and the desire to properly care for the books wage a war within her, but her inquisitive nature gets the better of her as she gently flips open the cover of a book. Once again, in a script she does not know. Thankfully the binding remains snugly in place.

The exhilaration of discovery only lasts until thirty or so minutes later when the language barrier starts to settle in as an annoyance. Books have little meaning to her if she doesn't know how to read them, and frankly, she worries that her oily hands are causing damage to artifacts that have clearly remained unaltered until now.

A sneeze rips itself out of her, and Lami uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her mouth and nose. _Another day_. She thinks to herself as she climbs back onto the bookcase. Another day, when her hands are properly cleaned, has a mask, and more candles at her disposal.

.

.

.

A couple nights later finds Lami in the secret alcove with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a mask covering the lower portion of her face, and a duster in hand. Before she can really sink her teeth into this discovery, she dedicates her time to cleaning up the mess left behind. The papers have been picked up from the floor and carefully assembled upright on the table for further examination, while most of the books are massed together in one of the corners for ease of access. Several candles light up the interior, the light barely noticeable from the outside; something she experimented the night prior.

Theories spin in her head as she quietly sweeps a feathered device over the old shelves, mind refusing to quiet with its conspiracies. The alcove _obviously_ hasn't seen any visitors in some time, and she has no basis to begin guessing how long the room has rotted away by its lonesome. In that same vein, she cannot bother to estimate the language's origins or the time frame of its usage and publications. It's not uncommon for dialects or scripts to get lost, unfortunately, especially after the World Government formed a coalition and "united" the _known_ and submissive humans of the planet. Or, more specifically, purged any information that does not adhere to the principles or utilities of the rising powers that be.

This is an issue she remembers from her time _before_ Lami. Despite the world having a universal information system, languages tend to slip through the cracks of time as old age and indifference chips at the foundations of culture and heritage.

She wonders if there used to be a civilization on this island before the owners of St. Monroe's swept in and built a tremendous mansion on top of it. With the knowledge she knows of this world, from her _past,_ and what she has gathered from history books, it wouldn't be too far of a stretch. But it's also possible that the artifacts in this room come from an outside source; from her experience St. Monroe's library is larger than most islands are privy to. This prospect has her scowling, she has her judgement about someone _choosing_ to store paraphernalia in a place like _this_. St. Monroe's is certainly not a place she would select, with the school's close ties to nobility and the Marines.

Unless someone _didn't_ choose; there's a possibility the information was stolen and stored away here. Given the disheveled condition of the area and its belongings, she wonders if the perpetrators of the mess had hurriedly stored the items in here, or if they frantically tore through the manuscripts in search of... _something_. If the latter, was this _during_ or _after_ the alcove was chosen as a place to secure these works?

The World Government and its affiliates simply destroy information and language if deemed suspicious or a threat to the "balance" of the regime. There is no use having loose threads hanging about. So either the books themselves are innocent... or the _powers that be_ have yet to find this little alcove.

She finds herself doubtful of this prospect— if a seven-year-old girl can find it accidentally it would be pitiful if centuries worth of teachers and librarians could not.

Lami pauses her movements, realizing the convoluted spiral of her thoughts, and huffs a sigh. It's also _entirely_ possible that she is making a mountain out of an anthill. Maybe the bookcases are just lined with cookbooks.

Questions upon questions, with no obvious answers... as per usual.

.

.

.

Days turn into weeks before Lami is _satisfied_ with the cleanliness of the alcove and ready to dive into the mysteries presented before her.

The globe and maps are _completely_ foreign to her, even with her mild knowledge of the geography of the North Blue. The earth of this world, at least to her knowledge, has no credible depiction of its seas and landmasses. Sailors rely entirely on experience, star charts, and hearsay. Smaller maps portraying chains of islands or islands themselves are _far_ more common than large scale maps that illustrate the Blues individually or as a whole.

This fact tickles at her brain as she sits on the floor with her blankets, carefully spinning the globe.

She understands why the Belts have no maps. The calm belts, allegedly, are empty spaces. Paradise and the New World are cataclysmic places that don't adhere to the Blues knowledge of science— or, at the very least, don't follow the same rules that the Blues do. Cartography based in the Belts must be a profession that is exhilarating but tedious if the stories are true. Given the nature of the sea, their maps must be constantly changing and needing alterations to remain prevalent.

However, the Blues are much more… static.

Thousands of years and _still_ there is no universal sea chart of the North Blue? She finds this awfully suspicious, regardless of how _large_ the oceans are. Either maps are being withheld from the public or some powers are preventing the unadulterated study.

 _Probably both_ , she thinks as she places a finger on the globe to stop its movement. She's certain that both the World Government and those in nefarious professions find this lack of knowledge beneficial.

Lami inspects the spot chosen— an island of some sort, but the label is illegible to her.

She wonders and wonders and _wonders_.

.

.

.

Snow melts away and gives way to a late spring.

Though most of her nights are spent tucked away in the alcove transcribing whatever she can, Lami occasionally makes expeditions through the tunnels.

Old maps are _fun_... However, they are far less useful when she can't read them or understand them, so once the weather warms up she throws herself back into the familiar motions of her own map-making. Over the course of a few weeks, she finds a trap door leading into the hedge maze outside of the school, two more dead ends, and a crawl space that leads to the cellar of the groundskeeper's cabin in the woods behind the school.

The groundskeeper's cabin is a particularly interesting find since it means she has a secret route leading outside. The hedge maze is intriguing as well, but the concept of getting _lost_ in it certainly points favours to the _freedom_ that the woods behind the school promise her.

The nights not consumed in the library are spent exploring the forests at the back of Briar North. There are times where she simply sits next to a large lake that encompasses a majour portion of the land, content to watch and listen to the animal life and signs of nature. Other times she sneaks around the edges of the forest, marveling over the large cliffs that stand over the thrashing waves to the east; watching the sea, admiring the moon and stars. Some nights she tries to find animals that don't reside in the lake and finds herself disappointed when she locates none.

.

.

.

Lami is copying down the contents of a manuscript into her notebook when the quiet hush of voices catch her attention. Despite the alcove concealing her, Lami freezes in place as paranoia pervades her mind.

Vague shuffling. The slide of a book drawn out of a shelf. More talking.

Silently standing up from the floor, she tiptoes towards the trapdoor.

Ear pressed to the slim crack between the shelves, she listens to the quiet voices on the other side. Their voices are faint and she is unable to discern what they are saying or who is on the other side.

She waits until the voices have trailed off and gone silent before returning to her work.

.

.

.

A high pitched whistle echoes across the sports field. The girls all move at once, starting their daily laps around the track. It doesn't take long for the group to separate between the ones who are actively trying and the ones who are simply coasting along.

Between the forests at night and the daily fitness class, Lami can feel the rigidness start to ease from her shoulders.

 _Months_ cooped up in the school had not done her well; the daytime often spent fidgeting with anything within her reach, falling unconscious, and restlessly taking notes, retaking notes, and rearranging her notes to look better in efforts to _do_ something. Although the library remains a wonderful nighttime distraction where she can funnel her scholastic endeavors into, she has spent most of the past five months in bed or stuffed away in a dusty and cramped environment. Such places do not alleviate the electricity that courses through her veins, urging her to _do something_ — to run, to jump, to play.

Lami pushes herself to run forward, faster and faster, effortlessly pushing ahead of the older girls. There's no thought process in this, just _run_. It's freeing, in a way, to simply allow herself to mindlessly _do_ an activity.

Between her future and the _countless_ questions and mysteries she bombards herself with, Lami is _constantly_ thinking. Mulling. Brooding. There is no end to the pit of her thoughts, constantly pulling her deeper and deeper until she can no longer see what is straight in front of her. Just _once_ she would like to see a mystery and _not_ get sent into an unending spiral of conspiracy theories and existential dread once the realization of the fruitlessness her actions will have on the grander scheme of the world.

Distractions only last so long; her thoughts are her constant companions.

But still, she _runs_.

She runs and she runs, lapping over the other girls in her class once, twice, three times.

.

.

.

The school year comes to a gradual close.

Lami is packed and ready to go _days_ before her departure, practically living out her trunk during the final stretch. It's not a conscious choice, but one she finds herself slowly sliding into; her books are packed first, one by one, then her clothes, her pens— until she realizes that there is nothing left and has to shuffle through her trunk to gather her supplies every morning for the day ahead.

By the time Barlow arrives at St. Monroe's to pick up her passengers, Lami is _aching_ to leave, to _go_. It doesn't matter _where_ , as long as she is in motion. She's tired of this environment; tired of looking at the same walls, the same teachers, the same children. Tired of the bland subjects taught, tired of having to _sneak around_ to gain an _ounce_ of mental stimulation, just so tired tired _tired_ —

The woman laughs when she sees Lami dart off when the _Nameless_ crew mates pick up her belongings, "What did I tell yeah? Prison."

Promptly ignoring her, Lami briskly walks the familiar path between the hedge maze and the gardens down to the docks.

.

.

.

The _Nameless_ is a familiar breath of fresh air.

Despite the jovial teasing, Lami melds right into the ship and it's small but rambunctious crew. Even Barlow, who eats with her mouth wide open and taunts her at least three times in a conversation, is a sight for sore eyes.

During the day she reads, she studies the various symbols that the _mystery language's_ alphabet consists of, she sits in a sunspot on the upper deck, she listens to Ashby's advice and stories. During the night she lurks in the dining room as the crew drinks and talks, she lays out on the deck and catalogs the stars with Lucky, she dreams and wakes up in a cold sweat.

Rinse and repeat for five days.

She hasn't felt this relaxed in _months_.

.

.

.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," Lami confesses to Lucky one night, with only the stars to witness.

It's a difficult thing to say, to conjure forth into the world. Now that she has said it, there is no unsaying it. This _feeling_ , the restlessness that has taken place in her bones, is made _real_ by the knowledge that _someone_ knows. That someone has _heard_. It's terrifying, it's liberating, it's putting words to a feeling she has struggled with for months.

There's a comfort here, on this boat, with this man who she hardly knows. There's safety in this; Lucky is someone she may never see again, and it'll make no difference to her life. Sailors are easy to replace, even ones who have been as kind as him.

He's fluent in silence; speaks without words and offers an ear that lacks judgement.

"I feel like I've been holding my breath," She continues in a whisper, staring at the sky, "and now my lungs are starting to burn."

How much longer does she have to _hold her breath_? How much longer does she have to _contort_ herself to be _smaller_ , _quieter_ , _demure_? How many masks will she have to don before she's allowed the freedom of identity? She's wearing a self-inflicted suit that is three times too small and she wants to _stretch_ , she wants to _holler_ , wants the ability to have her own _agency_. She wants to reach out to the world and _hold_ onto something, drag her nails and dig her teeth. The world is _big_ and she is _confined_ to a _pinprick_ on a map while the world spins and spins around her, inscrutable and _ambivalent_ to her very existence.

 _All in the name of_ _survival_ , she tells herself. If she has to tear herself apart and make herself a patchwork substitute of a human being, then so be it. This doesn't mean it'll be easy; that it'll be _fair_.

"Let go." He says, voice startlingly loud against the soft sighing of wind and sloshing of waves, "Breathe."

She swallows thickly, as though something is lodged in her throat, "I don't think I can. Not yet." She inhales a stuttering breath, "Not yet."

Lucky gives a rumbling hum, "If you hold on for too long, one day you'll forget what you're holding onto. Forget to let go."

There is nothing she can say to that.

* * *

throws this at y'all. i'm tired of looking at it!

next chapter is the last chapter for this arc so it's going to be a little longer than the rest, i estimate. then there will be a _short_ intermission, which will include small (or not so small) pov's from: law, madeline, a classmate of lami's... and maybe some others. maybe a frazzled librarian or one of her parents? who else would you guys like to see from the viewpoint of?

i'm going to be participating for the first time in nanowrimo with this fic as my "main project", so we'll see if updates improve! ha.

thank you all for reading! cheers!

if you are interested in asking any questions or want updates/art/shitposts/etc, check out my blog for this story at: fic-pickyourpoison . tumblr . com

[date: 2O19/1O/28] [word count: 7813]


	9. expulsion (pt1)

**warnings. / none, yet.**

* * *

O8.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _expulsion (pt.1)_.

* * *

"So you don't know what the language is, either," Lami says from where she is sprawled out on Law's bed, staring at the ceiling. She's not surprised. When she handed over her notes chronicling the language she found in the secret alcove, she hadn't expected him to know any more than she does. But it feels... good, to have this out in the open. To talk about it for the first time in months.

The telltale sound of scribbling notifies her that Law is taking notes, "No. Mom might, though. She's more interested in this kind of thing."

Lami hums, not exactly sold on this suggestion. "If you haven't seen it, I doubt Mom or Dad would have. It's probably just some dead language."

"Maybe." A page flips. "Maybe not."

"Maybe not?" She asks, turning her head to look at him. Law's inspecting her notebook and writing in another.

"Unused tunnels that lead to locked rooms, empty hallways with no doors, conveniently connected to all of the buildings? Secret rooms that contain old artifacts? What even is this _globe_ thing you have drawn here? I've never seen anything like it." Law shakes his head, idly twirling his pencil with thought, "The architecture _can't_ be random. You don't add hidden rooms and hallways for the sake of it, there has to be a _purpose_. Why tuck away a room's worth of _mystery language_ stuff without there being a _reason?_ "

Sighing with absolute _relief_ , Lami melts into the mattress. She's not making this up, she's not unhinged with paranoia.

He agrees with her. _He agrees with her_.

"Are you _sure_ that no one else is using the tunnels?" Law asks, turning towards Lami with a clear frown on his face.

Opening her mouth to give a prompt refusal, she pauses. _Does_ she know, for certain, that no one else is using them?

"No," She says, after a moment of thought, "I don't. I haven't _seen_ anyone in the tunnels, but I haven't been into all of them yet, and I don't go into them during the daytime."

The two of them sit in silence, mulling over their thoughts.

The prospect of individuals creeping around in the dark, just beyond her vision, is enough to make her shudder. What if there _have_ been people in the tunnels with her? Without her even _knowing_?

"A globe is a spherical representation of the world," Lami adds, answering his previous question. She exhales slowly, "It's supposed to be like a map but in the presumed shape of the earth. But what's curious about it is that the landmasses, oceans, and such don't match up with my understanding of the world's geography. Most of the world's geography isn't even _recorded_."

"How strange…" Law murmurs, "It doesn't make any sense."

"I know, right?" Lami huffs, rolling onto her back and stretching out her arms. "I'm finding myself becoming more and more suspicious of the school."

"Why's that? Those who are in charge now weren't there when the school was first built. They wouldn't have been involved with this secret room of yours. Most likely, they aren't even aware of all the rooms and spaces hidden away in the infrastructure."

Pursing her lips, Lami idly listens to his reasoning. She can't refute his logic saying _I have a feeling_ without fumbling into a losing argument or him making fun of her. She can't go into the intricacies of the World Government, the atrocities they puppeteer, and the nobles that profit from them. What does Trafalgar Lami know of the World Government besides what is force-fed to everyone who lives in a country that resides in it's "protection"?

"I'm just wondering what sort of skeletons they have in their closet." She says instead.

Law gives a mild, skeptical, hum while he continues to take notes.

Lami huffs in response, wondering why he _always_ has to assume the worst in her and readjusts herself on his bed. Head pressed into one of his pillows, Lami curls an arm to hug it to her face while trying to come up with a clever comeback to his silent doubting.

But when her hand reaches under his pillow, her hand brushes up against paper; a magazine of some sort.

"Ah, _wait_ —" Law suddenly blurts out.

With morbid curiosity, Lami wonders if her brother is at _that_ age as she pulls it out.

She's not sure what she expects— okay, she knows _exactly_ what she expects— but a comic book with a gigantic robot on the cover is _not_ it.

"Hey! You can't just-" Law starts, and with a brief glance she notes that his face is cherry red, "It's-"

Smirking just a little, Lami rolls onto her back and flips open the cover to read through the first page. From the side, her brother makes a hilarious squawking noise and hurriedly pushes his chair back. Law jumps and tackles Lami on the bed, hands grabbing at her in an effort to get the comic out of her possession. Rolling onto her side and holding the book out of his reach, she quietly snickers at the dramatic pictures and massive explosions.

"It's just a dumb book one of my classmates _forced_ me to take, okay?" Law barks, tone very unconvincing, as he pulls her hair to gain leverage, "Robots are _so_ d-dumb."

"Hey!" Lami hisses, reaching a hand behind her to push him away. His hat falls off his head as she practically hits him in the face. For the next few moments, they scuffle, pulling at each other's hair and faces until they inevitably roll off the bed and continue wrestling on the floor. The comic plops onto the bed as they do so.

"Can't you just, for once, admit that you like something _childish_?" Lami huffs as she kicks him in the stomach, "Why do you always try so hard to be the pinnacle of maturity when there is nothing wrong with liking comics!"

"Oh, like you're one to talk!" Law growls back, grabbing her by the foot and pulling her so her head _smacks_ against the ground, "Misses prefers the company of books to humans!"

"That's completely different!" She spits, feeling a bit dizzy as she pushes him, "I don't hide that fact! You look down on certain subjects and hobbies because you think you're better than them! But then behind closed doors... It's hypocritical!"

"Yeah, and _you_ think you're better than other people—" He pushes her, "you never respect anyone's privacy and always think people are _suspicious_. When, really, aren't _you_ the suspicious one going through other people's stuff? Is that supposed to be any better?"

"It's not better!" Lami snaps, tackling him to the ground, "But it's _different_!"

They continue to tussle, pushing and shoving at each other until they eventually grow too tired to continue. They silently cease-fire, huffing and puffing as they do so.

Rolling onto her back with her own volition, she grumbles, "Why are you mad at me? I don't get why you are mad at me."

Law, laying down beside her, gives an aggravated groan in response, "Words just go through one ear and out the other, don't they?"

"Hm? What was that?" Lami says, mildly teasing despite how worn out she feels. "Sorry, I wasn't listening."

"You're not funny." Law grouses, "You are the opposite of funny."

"Haha." She laughs with a flat tone, "It's okay. I understand that you have the inherent desire to hide your feelings of enjoyment in anything that doesn't fit into your slim criteria of what is _acceptable_ to a rising M.D like yourself."

Law elbows her in the ribs with a huff.

Scowling and rubbing at her side, Lami squints at the ceiling in contemplation. She waits a few moments before hesitantly saying, "... You know you don't have to hide these sorts of things, right? Not from me, at least. I won't judge you for liking comics."

"Yes, yes you _will_." Law sighs, rubbing at his face. "You _always_ judge other people."

Unable to say that he is _wrong_ , per se, she rolls over onto her side to look at him, "I wouldn't with you. It's different. I just don't understand why you are... hiding your interests like it is something to be ashamed of. Tucked underneath your pillow."

"It's _embarrassing_. It's _dumb_." He says with _obvious_ conflict in his tone, face red. "I'm not, I'm not _like_ you Lami."

Frowning, she lifts herself with one hand so she can get a better look at him, "What do you mean?"

"I mean-" Law sits up, looking rather frustrated, "you don't _care_ what other people think about you. At all! You read your weird books no matter where you are! You do things without any consideration! When people make fun of you... You just... _Ignore_ it."

"You're not like this?" Lami asks, brows furrowing. She always thought that they are the same. "What's the point of worrying about other people when I have plenty to worry about myself?"

He shrugs, hands running through his hair with agitation.

"Has someone been making fun of you?" She asks, suddenly, leaning towards him, "If _anyone_ makes fun of your interests in robots or anything else I will punch them."

"No! No one has!" Law sighs, head in hand.

"I will punch them." She repeats, _staring_ at him. Willing him to divulge his information to her.

"How do you make _me_ look normal." He mutters quietly to himself.

"Do people tell you that you're not normal?"

Law merely sighs once more.

.

.

.

"What are you doing," Law says flatly from his desk when she enters his room the next night.

Not responding, Lami opens up his wardrobe and pulls out the robot comic he has hidden.

"Hey!" He barks, "How'd you know it was there?"

"You are terrible at hiding things," Lami says, closing the wooden drawers and hopping onto his bed, backing up so she can sit with her back against the wall. She doesn't tell him that she heard their parents giggling about it earlier that day, "Read it to me."

"What? You _really_ don't listen to anything other people have to say, do you?"

"If you were _actually_ upset with me I would," Lami then holds out the comic book, "Read it to me."

Law stares at her blankly, "It's a comic book."

"And?"

"It's mostly _pictures_."

"And? I want you to read it to me." Lami grins, hoping to look encouraging. "Please."

Gears shift in his head, obviously trying to figure out the meaning of this gesture. After a moment he seems to give up and heaves a sigh. Sliding off of his chair, he makes his way to sit beside her on the bed, "Okay. Fine. Give it to me."

Handing it over, she then takes a pillow in hand and hugs it to her chest.

"Boom. Pow. Psh." He says, voice comically flat. "The year was 2784…"

.

.

.

Mind hazy with sleep, Lami sluggishly eases out of a dream.

Groaning quietly at night sky peeking through her window, she presses her face into one of her pillows. Lami stays like this for a long moment, wondering why she is awake. Thoughts languidly attempt to grab hold of her previous dream, trying to recall what it had been about. Dancing; fog; the gentle brush of a thumb against her cheek— Though she tries, a thought on the tip of her tongue yet _just_ out of reach, the dream dissolves.

Releasing a breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding, Lami rolls onto her back. Her eyes refuse to open all the way, fluttering every few seconds as her head nods back. She dozes, mind fogging over, until her body _jerks_ with the sensation of _falling_.

Staring at the ceiling, suddenly wide awake, Lami curses and throws her pillow at the wall. Refusing to give up, she curls onto her side and attempts to force herself back to sleep. She lays there, squeezing her eyes shut. She waits and she waits.

Sleep eludes her.

Lami gives up when her legs and waist start to feel uncomfortably stiff, flip-flopping on her bed, unable to focus on anything else. Throwing off her blankets, she grumbles with annoyance as she stomps around her room. Thrusting her hands into her clean-clothes hamper she drags out a sweater and two mismatched socks, sitting down onto the ground to put them on with a sleepy scowl. When finished, Lami stares at the floor while idly playing with her toes, head dipping forward, feeling too heavy for the rest of her body.

Lethargically standing up with a large yawn, she leaves her room and slowly heads downstairs with her hands clinging onto the railings. She wants to grab a cup of water, or milk, or juice. Maybe all of the above. She hasn't decided yet.

The sight of her father sleeping on the couch gives her pause.

Rubbing at an eye, she creeps forward with a frown. He's not wearing his work uniform, so it's not as though he got home and passed out on the couch like he is prone to do. His frog pajamas suggest he dressed and made the conscious choice to sleep on the couch but— that's dumb, why would he do that?

The floorboards underneath her creaks as she takes another step forward, startling her father from his sleep. He grunts, reaching backward and patting his hands around the side table in a blind search for his glasses.

He won't find them, Lami thinks, since they are on the floor.

Waddling forward, she kneels and reaches for his glasses from under the coffee table. Shuffling around, Lami hands them to him without a word.

"How'd they get under there?" He asks with a subdued laugh, slowly turning onto his side to properly face her. "I swear, sometimes they just get up and walk away!"

Lami's mouth twitches, but it's mainly because of his awful bedhead; the left side of his hair is sticking up rather conspicuously. She nestles her legs underneath the couch, folds her arms on the cushions, and rests her head there.

Her father sighs, threading his fingers through her hair as he quietly murmurs, "What are you doing awake?"

"Can't get back to sleep." She mumbles, eyes closing at his nails idly scratch at her scalp. He's not as soft as when her mother does it, Lami can't help but compare, but it's not a bad thing.

Silence draws on until his head dips to the couch, gently snoring. Lami looks up when his ministrations stop, quietly annoyed as she pulls a face. She takes his hand and puts it back on her head, mimicking the actions of patting.

"Alright, alright." He whispers with fondness, obviously half asleep as he huffs with laughter. He resumes playing with her hair.

Lami hums, eyes closing once more, "Why are you on the couch?"

"Mm? Oh." There's a lengthy pause, and she thinks he must have fallen asleep again until she looks up and sees that he is staring at the ceiling. "Hm."

Contemplating, but too tired to put any real effort into carefully deciphering his behaviour, she tentatively asks, "Did you and Mom get into a fight?"

What an odd thought, Lami thinks. She has never seen her parents in a bad mood, let alone _angry_ at each other.

"No, no, nothing like that." He says, trying to placate her.

Frowning deeply, she wonders if he is lying. "Then what is it?"

"Sometimes…" He trails off for a moment, "Sometimes people need space, you know? Need to be alone."

Lami understands this, so she doesn't push the subject. Instead, she asks, "You? Or Mom?"

"Mom." But her father is smiling warmly, so she doesn't think he is upset about this. "It's nothing to worry about, I promise."

 _Worrying_ is something Lami is extremely prone to do, so she does not comment. She assumes, however, that her mother had a bad day at work. It's not _uncommon_ , but Lami has never seen her parents outwardly react to such days. Mulling this over, she stands up from her spot and crawls underneath the blanket he is using. Clambering over his body, she nestles herself between him and the back of the couch. Turning herself around, she presses her face against his ribs, content to feel the thrum of his heart against her cheek.

At his silence, she asks quietly, "Is this okay?"

" _Yeah_." Her father says, sounding choked up as he curls his fingers into her hair. "Yeah. Of course this is okay, sweetheart."

She doesn't stand a chance after this; the rhythm of his breathing lulling her back to sleep.

.

.

.

 _All chemicals have the potential to be toxic, but the dose governs the toxicity. This is the basic tenet of toxicology. For example, humans require water for survival. However, drinking too much water in a short period of time is actually quite dangerous. In a state of overhydration, an affected individual can suffer from mental status changes, vomiting, nausea, seizures, and, in extreme cases, death. If a poison is considered as a compound that causes harm, then in this case water is a poison._

 _There are many substances that are much more toxic than water, for which exposure to a minute amount of substance is harmful. The parameter used to compar_ —

" _You two_ , again?" A voice interrupts, ripping Lami from her chapter on _Toxicity_ ( Intro to Chemistry 1011).

A librarian looms over them, a distraught look on her face as her eyes dart between the book towers Law has created in the middle of the aisle. Again.

Law snaps a look towards Lami. Wordlessly, she understands the warning in his expression. This librarian is not a pushover or to be messed with. She watches as his fingers press against the floor and count from one—

two—

"Why- I have _never_ \- you children are _certainly_ a piece of work—"

three.

Lami and Law jump up at the same time, sprinting in opposite directions. The Librarian gasps and sputters behind her, but she pushes forward and zigzags her way through the bookcases of the Flevance library. Pushing into the staircase, Lami jumps down the steps three at a time. She doesn't hear the _clicking_ of heels, so she guesses that the Librarian went after Law.

There's probably a story there, she thinks with a quiet laugh.

.

.

.

One mid-afternoon, the sun high in the sky, Lami finds herself in a lecture hall surrounded by twenty-something-year-olds.

Her father stands on the stage below with a cadaver prostrating on a surgical table for all in the room to see. A group of medical students wearing scrubs surround him and the elderly man's body, nodding intently as her father enthusiastically talks about the brain he has in hand. Apparently, the students are to figure out the cause of death, but only a few of his students are actually paying attention to the body. Most are sending doe eyes at the Best Doctor in Flevence. Trailing him around. Taking furious notes. Distracting him with questions.

She can't hear what the students are saying, but she can hear her father's replies due to the microphone he is wearing. If she had to guess, from the way he is laughing and rubbing at the back of his head, she'd say that they are trying to sweet-talk and flatter him.

Lami sinks in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she kicks her feet against the desk's leg.

"This is _awesome,_ " Law says in the seat to her left, leaning over his notebook to the point where she wonders how he even has space to _write_. "We've only used _sheep_ brains, frogs, and cow eyeballs in class— _ugh,_ it's not _fair_."

"Yeah. Totally awesome." Lami mutters flatly, lips pursing together, "They're going to run out of time at this rate. They keep asking Dad questions."

"Right? He never shuts up. They're _never_ going to get around to cranial nerves." He's practically vibrating in his chair, "If it were me I'd have already figured out the CoD, shut Dad up, identified the nerves, _and_ labelled them by type."

"Yeah yeah, we get it. You're a budding serial killer."

Law throws his eraser at her and squints his eyes at her suspiciously, "Why are you so _grouchy_?"

Lami huffs and rolls her head back against the chair, feeling petulant but glad he asked, "I _get_ that Dad is excited to be a guest teacher for the first time, but I don't get why _we_ have to be here too. Neither of us are _vicarious_ learners, so what's the point?"

"I can't tell if you're being serious or just whining." He says flatly.

"Mostly the latter." She sighs, sinking deeper into her seat. He's _proud_ and _happy_ and wants to share his accomplishments with his kids, wants to make _this_ an _experience_ for the family.

Lami stares at the dozen or so students below and feels herself frown.

 _Thud. Thud. Thud._

"Could you _stop_ —" Law huffs, swatting at her shoulder, "I'm _trying_ to listen."

"He's not even talking about cranial nerves anymore— hell, he's not even talking about the _brain_ anymore."

"Hey!" Law hisses, looking around frantically as he presses a hand to her mouth, "No swearing!"

Lami's brain freezes and then kick starts with a vengeance. Ripping his hand from her face she growls back, "Are you _serious_? You swear _all_ the time!"

"No! I don't!" Law whispers back, "Plus, I'm _older_."

"Yeah, by like, a _year_ —"

"Plus, Mom would _kill_ me if she found out you were swearing!" He shudders with a grimace.

"Good! Then we can put you on a slab so I can study gross anatomy!"

"You're a _real_ piece of work, you know that?"

"Fuck. Shit. Bitch."

Law practically tackles Lami to cover her mouth, the scraping of the chair legs on the floor startlingly _loud_. Students sitting nearby _shush_ them with dirty looks attached, and Law's face contorts into a scowl.

The siblings hesitantly glance towards their father and relax in tandem when they see he is too busy talking to notice their mischief.

Lami glimpses at Law's sour expression and can't keep herself from quietly laughing, hands covering her mouth in a poor attempt to muffle the sounds. Her brother stubbornly frowns for all of ten seconds before he is huffing and giggling along with her, forehead briefly pressing against her shoulder.

.

.

.

There's a knock on her door, one night, and Law slips into the room before she can answer. He's wearing his pajamas, and his signature hat is nowhere in sight.

Lami stares up at him from where she is sitting on the floor, a 1000 piece puzzle depicting a mountainside spread out in front of her with a lamp at her side.

"I thought you'd be done that by now." He says conversationally as he closes the door behind him.

Taking note of this with a side-eye, Lami returns to the puzzle she's whittled for the past hour. She likes the scenic shot the picture makes; a snowy mountain with a star-lit sky, "I'm taking my time. I'm trying to go from the inside out."

"You should at least turn the light on," Law mutters as he sits next to her, "the low lighting will tire your eyes."

"I like the ambiance." Is all she says in response.

They sit in silence for a lengthy period of time as Lami picks her way through the puzzle, Law wordlessly handing her pieces that she's looking for. It's quiet. It's comfortable. She relaxes into the tranquil moment, then idly wonders why the joints in her shoulders felt tense in the first place. There's _catharsis_ in the act of putting something together after taking it apart, the quiet thrum of satisfaction as the puzzle starts to fill out.

The press of his arm against hers is the only warning she gets before his head rests on her shoulder. He sighs, deep and unbidden. Lami merely blinks in response, staring at the puzzle in thought as she fiddles with a deep blue sky piece. She holds it out to him, and he gingerly tosses it onto the floor.

"You've been acting strange." He murmurs, "Are you... Okay?"

With only a few words, breath is ripped from her lungs. She continues to stare silently at the ground, unseeing, trying to recall the motions necessary to breathe. Reaching out to grab a puzzle piece, to find _something_ to fiddle with, to distract herself with, to placate the sudden _itch_ that has found its way under her skin—

Law takes her by the wrist and twines their fingers together.

"I won't make you talk. I won't push you. If you'd rather bicker and wrestle as an.. outlet.. That's okay. I'm okay with that." He pauses, tracing the freckles on her hand in a triangular motion. "But I just want to let you know that I'm here. For you. If you want to talk. Yeah?"

"Have you been reading my books?" She laughs mildly, fingers tightening around his, trying to ignore the way her eyes are burning, roughly swallowing around a lump in her throat. _My books_ being the social sciences that Law had so viciously fought against years prior, _pseudoscience_ , in his opinion.

"Maybe." Is his short, somewhat petulant reply.

Lami laughs again, a little wheezy, mind twisting and turning over itself. What does she say? What should she say? What _can_ she say?

"I missed you." She blurts out, voice rough even to her ears, "I missed- Mom, Dad, you- I..."

She goes quiet. She's going to miss them.

"I missed you too." He whispers when it becomes clear she has no intention of continuing.

.

.

.

Broom in hand, Lami shuffles through the contents of her bag to make sure she has procured all of the necessary supplies. She chances a glance around, rushing to the doorway when she sees no one.

"Did you get them?" Law calls out from the next room.

Shushing him quietly, she ducks unto the living room.

It is a mess. _Nothing_ can be seen properly. Blankets and sheets drape down from any high available surface, books and nicknacks holding the material in place; tall towers of books scatter the room with cloth wedged been; the cushions of the couches positioned like a stone archway to grant access to those who dare enter. A soft glow can be seen from inside the fortress, along with the quiet shift of a page-turning.

Lami wedges herself between the fort and a cabinet, dropping to her knees and crawling through the pillow doorway.

When he sees her, Law makes grabbing motions. Grinning, she hands him the broom instead.

Her brother scowls as he gets to work propping up a collapsed part of the ceiling.

The space in the fort is dim due to the way they have layered the roof-blankets. Once she has dropped the sheet-door, the only light available is from the flashlight Law has in hand. Dragging herself through the plethora of pillows and blankets that cover the floor, Lami flops into place beside Law.

"If Mum finds out we have these…" Lami trails off, wincing as she dumps the contents of her bag. It's mostly candy.

"We'll blame Dad," Law whispers back, shuffling through their prize to find his preferred sweets, "he's always sneaking stuff from the secret stash."

"I don't think it's a secret stash if everyone knows about it."

Law shrugs, tearing apart a wrapper, "Even more reason for us to take it. Not _our_ fault they are terrible at hiding the sweets."

"I don't want to hear that from _you_." Lami huffs, shoving chocolate in her mouth as she drops to the ground, "Now continue where you left off, we were just at the good part."

"I don't want to get the pages dirty!"

"Well, then, wipe your hands!"

.

.

.

The next morning Lami grumbles awake with a weight on her side. Rubbing at her eyes, she squints and notices Law's tufts of hair peeking at the edge of her vision. He's drooling on her shoulder. Contemplating pushing him off, because drool is _gross_ , she ends up simply patting his head with hazy fondness.

The fact he has stolen her blanket, however, is a transgression she cannot forgive.

Pulling her blanket free from his clutches, Lami curls herself into it. She tries to retrieve Law's blanket from his other side, but her brother is bodily preventing her from doing so.

Grumbling, Law pulls on her blanket.

"Fuck off," Lami mutters, kicking at his feet as she tugs back.

There's a soft chuckle from outside the blanket fort. Lami freezes in place. The following _click_ of high heels alerts her of her mother's presence, though shuffling and subsequent creaking floorboards imply she is heading upstairs. Relaxing, Lami heaves a sigh of relief. Maybe her mother won't berate her for her language, then.

" _Hey_ -" Law sleepily grouses when she aggressively ruffles at his hair for being the _obvious_ reason for her slip up.

"Stop stealing my blanket."

Laws only response is to roll on top of her, one arm draping across her neck while his leg uncomfortably weighs down her own. His boney knee is stabbing into her thigh. She pushes at him, but he merely snores.

Lami herself has almost drifted back to sleep when a soft "Knock knock." whispers from the other side of the blanket-door, the sheet pulling to the side as her mother peeks in, "Is there enough room for one more?"

"Mhm." She mumbles, pushing away from Law and rolling to the side so her mother can fit into the limited space. Sitting up, she begins cleaning up the comic and science books that litter the ground.

Her brother makes another noise of complaint but subsides when their mother tucks him in with a spare blanket. She's wearing pajamas, now, her makeup washed off. Tired eyes affectionately gaze down at Law, a faint smile lighting up her features as her mother gently brushes at his bangs. After a moment she lays down, pulling Law to her side.

Lami rubs her eyes and yawns, watching as Law curls into their mother. It's cute.

"Long day at work?" Lami sleepily asks as she does the same, head resting on her mother's chest while her fingers twine with the fabric of her shirt.

"Mm, very long." Her mother sighs, arm wrapping around Lami's back and soothingly rubbing up and down her spine.

Lami hums, melting, and says, "Missed you."

"I missed you too." Even without looking, Lami can hear the tender smile in her tone.

.

.

.

The kitchen smells like burnt butter, the sizzling of vegetables nearly distracting Lami from her work.

The dining room table has an assortment of tools, bolts, and metal sheets splayed out on its surface within an arm's reach of her. A Den Den Mushi lazily watches as she dissembles the dialing mechanism that had once accessorized it's back. She places another screw on the table, next to the similar looking metal pins, and gently peels off the rotary dial. Examining the bolts and cogs at the back, she spins the dial and observes as the various parts spin. The recoil spring then _whirrs and_ resets.

It's interesting how the mechanism itself has no power source; in her past world, all telecommunicator technology needed some sort of _plug_ or battery. But Den Den Mushi are _living_ beings with telepathic capabilities, the only power source _they_ need is _food_ and _water_. However, it makes her wonder how the dial function of the accessory enables Den Den Mushi to connect with others.

Mulling over her thoughts, she idly wishes she knew more about this world's technology and how it works.

"Having fun?" Her father asks from the kitchen, audibly chopping more vegetables.

"Mm." Lami hums, delicately placing the dial back into the metal casing. She pokes at the wires and coils hooked up to various metal contraptions, eyes trailing the red wires to the metal junction that connects the Den Den Mushi to the dial. The other wires lead to a bulb and gauge at the bottom of the accessory. Do Den Den Mushi themselves power these, or has she simply not found the battery pack yet?

"I wish we knew more about Den Den Mushi," Lami says after a moment of contemplation, pushing the dial away so she can fold her arms on the table. Resting her chin on her wrists, she stares at the snail. It blankly stares back at her, and the two commence a staring contest.

"There is a lot in the world we do not understand!" Her father starts cheerfully, though she tunes out his monologue to focus on the specimen in front of her.

Den Den Mushi are not considered sapient beings, but Lami wonders the validity of this assumption. The way they can _mimic_ other species, from their voice to their facial expressions, is _uncanny_. Are they capable of telepathically speaking to other species, or is there something _particular_ about the way they pick up electric signals? Allegedly, there is little training needed to utilize them after hooking up various mechanical devices— does that imply a natural intelligence or are they simply biologically lucky?

Mentally _willing_ the Den Den Mushi to give up its secrets, she stares and stares and _stares._

Lami loses after two minutes, eyes watery and burning.

"—now, we're lucky here in Flevance. Most are wealthy enough to have a Den Den Mushi of their own, albeit small and short in telepathic range, but even that is not universal! Most islands only have a handful of them hanging around; they can be expensive to upkeep, between their diets and maintaining the machinery, not to mention most homes don't _need_ communication devices when most islands are easy enough to maneuver around. Your mother and I are frequently on-call for the hospital, so of course, there's an urgency for us to have one on hand."

Lami idly wonders if maybe she shouldn't have picked theirs apart, then.

"But the _need_ for further examination is not prominent enough for people to take notice. Den Den Mushi work fine as they are and, as far as we are aware, they are content to be utilized as a tool. Innovation is, at heart, inspired by strife and shared goals. The World Government, as such, have more important studies to look into. No need to fix, or examine, something that isn't broken, hm?"

"... I guess." She murmurs, understanding what he is saying but not _happy_ with it. She extends a hand towards the snail and watches with a quiet smile as it crawls over and brushes against her fingers.

It's convenient, Lami thinks, that the people of Flevance are only given allowance for short-ranged Den Den Mushi. Is it a larger conspiracy, the World Government restricting access to long-range snails in anticipation for future events, or is her father's innocent outlook all there is to it?

Gaze falling to the table, Lami heaves a quiet sigh.

( the thoughts never go away, do they? )

The Den Den Mushi moves away from her hand and crawls to brush against her face. Lami huffs quietly, awkwardly patting at its shell. They aren't cats or dogs, so she's not exactly sure what the _petting_ etiquette is... Or if they even like affection of this manner. The snail doesn't move away, so she supposes that it's not opposed to the action.

"Not too much longer!" Her father speaks up, though she doesn't look around to see what he is doing.

Her thumb lightly brushes the side of the snail's shell, deep in thought. A question on mind, but hesitant to speak it out into the world; to string a line of words together and watch the consequences they'll bring about.

Mostly, Lami doesn't want false hope. It's a festering disease, one she thought she got rid of years ago. Her plan for survival is simple. It's easy. All she has to do is _nothing_. Follow Law. Let the universe do as it's told; slip through the cracks and _cling_ to her life, to her _determination_ , so hard that not even death itself can unfurl her grip.

Lami runs the pad of her thumb over the grooves of the shell, her voice coming out quieter than intended when she asks, "What… are your thoughts about… potentially.. moving someplace else..?"

"Oh? Well, we can't do that." He hums, clearly not putting much thought into the question, "Your mother and I have our responsibilities with the hospital."

"Right." Lami softly says, voice somewhat meek and rough around the corners.

"Don't let your mother know that I told you this, but our presence is mandatory for the continued operations of our clinics. With old age, relocations, and budget cuts limiting our personnel, I fear that Flevance wouldn't run if we weren't around. Even most of our medical students are from outside kingdoms looking to learn about our science and technologies." Her father rambles, jostling his stir fry rather aggressively, "Normally this would not be an issue! Knowledge is meant to be shared! However with our current staff and university prospects… We might have to look into hiring doctors from outside of Flevance. Which isn't ideal, as we'd prefer to have practitioners who are up to date on our technologies."

This is a topic he feels strongly about. Evidently, he wants to revitalize the hospital. Bring it to its former glory. Help the people of Flevance to the best of his (admittedly capable) abilities.

( it's too bad his dreams are all in vain, huh? )

Lami stares blankly at a bolt, mind miles away.

"I guess we'll have to wait until Law and you grow up, huh?" He laughs, "Though I, by no means, intend on pushing you to be a doctor."

"Law will make a great doctor." She offers, distracted.

"He _certainly_ has the makings of one! He could honestly get his medical degree by his early teens, though he'd find it difficult to get a job— even at our hospital! Youth isn't a trait most patients feel comforted by, after all. But perhaps he could find a place with the Sisters at the church until he's old enough… However, your mother thinks we should withhold him from graduating until he's at _least_ fourteen..."

"Feels like I haven't seen Mum in weeks…" Lami mutters, mouth twitching as the Den Den Mushi presses against her cheek. She's only seen her mother in short glimpses during the morning and ridiculously late at night.

"She's... Just busy." Her father says leaning his hip against the oven, though there is a little concern in his tone, "The Minister of Medicine and a few board members at the hospital are sending her through _hoops_ over some research she and her residency students have been studying over the past few months. Red tape is difficult to hurdle, so it's been stressful for her."

Lami wonders what the research is about. If it's regarding the (whitewhite _white_ ) disease she's thinking of.

"Okay— I just need bowls, put the rice in the bowls, and supper will be finished.." He says, off-topic and mostly to himself, opening up a cupboard. "Don't worry about putting the dial back together, we can just eat on the floor!"

.

.

.

Waking up one night, she finds her father once again snoring on the couch.

Careful not to wake him, she creeps forward and tucks his drooping blanket back into place. He shifts, mumbling quietly under his breath and throwing one arm behind him. His hand hits the lamp, but he doesn't wake up.

Hesitating for a moment, Lami shuffles in her spot while tugging at the sleeves of her sweater. Bold, brazen, fearless — traits she _needs_ to be. Inspired by this, she crawls underneath his blanket and forcibly makes room between him and the back of the couch. He grumbles and rolls over a little. Resting her head on his chest, Lami shakily breathes and closes her eyes.

For a long, long time, she silently listens to the beating of his heart.

.

.

.

The sky is as grey and disparaging as her mood, on the day Lami leaves for St. Monroe's.

Both of her parents are absent during her trek to the seaside. Emergency hospital business, unfortunately. A part of her wants to be bitter. But most of her is too _miserable_ to even conjure forth the feeling. There's a timer, an expiry date, the ticking of a clock in her mind that is constantly reminding her that she doesn't _have_ much longer. Lami wants to soak up all the love and affection she _can_ before it's too late. She's selfish, wants to push the rest of the world away from _them_ —

Is it going to be this year?

Is it going to be next year?

( is she never going to see them again? )

One of the nuns from the local church breathes out a careful laugh when the cart they are sitting in goes over a bump. Lami doesn't think the woman has ever left Flevance, not with her wide-eyed stare at the world around them. It doesn't help that Flevance is land-locked between countries with more power, but this isn't going to be an issue for their kingdom until…

On her other side, Law grabs her hand. He looks just as pensive and deflated as she does, scraping the nail of his thumb over her knuckles. Squeezing her fingers around his, she plops her head on his shoulder and stares blankly at the countryside.

"Aw!" The nun gushes, "Don't worry, kids, you'll be back at each other's side in no time! You can rest assured that the Lord is always watching, will always guide you home."

( somehow, this sounds like a threat )

Law scoffs, quiet enough for only Lami to hear, "See what I have to regularly deal with?"

Her mouth twitches, "You're going to enact the wrath of God."

"I'd certainly like to see him try!" Law laughs.

.

.

.

When it's time to say goodbye, Lami and Law hold onto each other for a long, long time.

He doesn't ask her to stay. Neither of them cry. But his expression alone tells her more than a thousand words ever could.

"I'll be back," Lami says, not knowing if this is a _promise_ or a _lie_. Where is the line that separates the two? Is there even a difference?

"I hate waiting." Law grumbles into her shoulder.

( she _wholeheartedly_ agrees )

.

.

.

"Well, _someone_ , is in a mood." Barlow loudly proclaims that night at dinner before chewing on her chicken leg. It's unsettling to watch. "I don't think I've heard two words come out of our princess's mouth!"

"Something must be wrong." Geoff gruffly agrees, spooning soup into his waiting maul.

"Aw, come on guys…" Ashby says, sending Lami a meek smile, "Leaving home can be hard!"

"She never had that problem before." Barlow barks, one leg propping up onto the bench she's sitting on.

Lami is pretty sure this woman does everything in her power to negate anything that St. Monroe's attempted to teach her, including how to sit properly. Whatever appetite she previously had is effectively lost upon seeing flecks of meat and spittle project out of Barlow's blue-stained mouth.

Scowling quietly, Lami uses her spoon to push at the mystery meat in her soup. She doesn't really want to talk. She doesn't really want to do _anything_. She just wants to lay down and wake up when everything is done and _over_ with.

At the end of the day, she is still _selfish_.

She would _still_ rather ship herself away to safety, while the rest of her people _perish_ ; by fire, by war, by disease. Lami doesn't feel bad about it, per se, but that in itself is a cause for concern. She wants to take her family and drag them far, far away from the festering mines of Flevance. Keep them all to herself, safe for the time being.

But it won't happen. She has known this for years. Her parents are not the type of people who will back down from their _duty,_ to run away from their home.

( would they be disappointed if they knew the type of person she is? )

Lucky slides onto the bench next to her, "Still holding your breath?"

With a stuttering inhale she says, "For a little while longer…"

A warm hand gently presses on her shoulder blades. Though she stiffens in place, the _comfort_ the touch brings is oddly indescribable.

.

.

.

Lami doesn't often _sneak_ around the _Nameless_. There is rarely ever a need to, not when she can speak with Ashby or Lucky, not when she can layout in the sun and read. Plus, the ship is too small to successfully stealth around.

And yet, here she is, snooping around Barlow's office.

She's bored which, more often than not, is the reason for her… nefarious behaviour, as Law might claim. It's not _Lami's_ fault that it has rained for the entire 4 days she has been onboard the ship. She didn't bring enough books to sustain her trip, and she's _tired_ of looking at anatomy diagrams.

Lami steps up onto a chair and leans over the desk. A large map is splayed out with various pins sticking into it. Tracing the lines of various islands, she notes that this isn't a complete map of the North Blue. Thumbing at a pin that rests on the coast of Lami's island, she eyes the four countries that surround Flevance. The map doesn't specify anything other than the lines separating the nations and the docks on the east coast of the island.

The pins must be placeholders for where the _Nameless_ will dock and pick up kids, she thinks to herself as she sits down and folds her arms on the table.

Kicking her legs, she fiddles with a few of the pins. The office is barren, unlike Barlow's personal chambers. The only adornishments in this room are the captain's absurd hats that rest on shelves attached to the walls and weird abstract paintings. She pulls at the various drawers on the desk and finds them all full with unimpressive stationery. Lami scowls, the drawers are an absolute _mess_! How does Barlow find _anything_?

For the next fifteen minutes, Lami simply rearranges and tidies the desk. She doesn't find any secret compartments or scandalous letters, which is boring. Huffing with disappointment, she closes the drawers and leans back against the headrest.

Maybe she could convince Barlow to show off her make-up, and how to properly utilize it. Lami isn't particularly interested in the beauty industry, but she's certain that Barlow could rant on and on. At least Lami would have something to _do_.

Hearing voices from the other side of the door, Lami slides off the chair and ducks underneath a liquor table, squeezing herself against the wall. She doesn't think that Barlow would be especially _upset_ about Lami's presence here… But it's fun to hide and pretend like there are high stakes at hand. Practice for the future.

Barlow stomps into the room, growling with disgust as she waves her arms around. This causes water to fling off of her _drenched_ sleeves.

"Careful there," Lucky says as he follows at a more sedated pace, "We've only got one map."

"And I've only got _one_ Van Hollan shirt!" Barlow retorts, face pinching together. Her makeup, however, looks fine. She drops onto the chair that Lami previously sat in, throwing her hat to the side of the room.

"I'd reckon that a map is more important than one of your thousand shirts, Akane."

"Tell that to my wallet!"

"Aye, I'm sure your wallet would say a map like this here map is a _wee bit_ more expensive."

Barlow waves him off, "Alright, alright, enough with the snark. Let me be _miserable_ in this horrendous weather."

Lucky sits down in the chair across from her. His eyes meet with Lami's, her heart stuttering, and he offers her a quiet wink before looking back to his captain, "It's not snow or stormy, we've faced much worse."

Clicking her tongue, she sheds her coat and lets it drop to the floor, "Weather like this is more of an _inconvenience_ than a challenge."

"Only five more years," Lucky reminds her, "then we can continue where we left off."

"If they keep their word," Barlow spits, crossing her arms and slouching in her seat. There's a long moment of silence as Lucky patiently waits. Slamming a fist onto the arm of the chair, she hisses, " _Fuck_ Madeline. May she one day find herself in the Sea Mistress's _locker_."

"You don't mean that," Lucky admonishes, leaning forward onto the table, "You'd've been locked up or six feet under if it weren't for her. We've _talked_ about this."

"Almost preferable than _this_." Barlow snarks, "Nepotism at its best."

"Shouldn't complain when it's in your favour." Lucky hums, then gestures toward the map, "We have the full list for the trip back?"

Lami can't see Barlow's expression, but she is quiet of a moment before she sighs. Sitting up properly in her seat, Barlow points out various points on the map, "Raven's Roost, Port Lock, North Shore, Peddlers Cove, Haven, and Lvneel. Subject to change, of course."

Wincing as her legs start to feel stiff, Lami curls up into a ball and rest her head on the ground. She tries her best to listen in on their conversation, but as Lucky and Barlow continue to speak, debating the best places to dock on the trip back, their voices slowly lull Lami into a bored slumber.

.

.

.

"I'm not talking about it." Lucky tells her that night, unprompted.

The rain stopping prompted Lami to creep onto the deck to stargaze. Clouds cover most of the sky, hiding the stars from view, but it doesn't prevent Lucky from telling her various stories and myths connected to them.

"Talking about what?" Lami asks though she thinks she already knows the answer.

"Barlow." Is his simple reply, scratching at his short beard.

"Boo." She hums. Information never comes easily, does it?

.

.

.

Arriving at St. Monroe's happens the same way it always does.

Heaving a sigh at the large lineup in the main foyer, Lami side-eyes her fellow peers as Barlow walks off in a huff. She'll probably return with wine and a bizarre choice of food, get into a fight with one of the secretaries, and then march away when anyone brings up the President.

It's all becoming much too predictable, Lami thinks as she stares up at the ceiling. A lovely mural is painted above them, featuring various important historical figures to the North Blue. She doesn't think it's _accurate_ , most historical figures tend to be terrible people, but the workmanship is beautiful.

"Lami!" A voice chirps nearby, almost soft.

Sending a disinterested stare their way, Lami suppresses a sigh when she sees one of her classmates. All the kids sort of look similar to her, but this one's chin-length curly blond hair is enough to separate her from a crowd of brunettes. A quiet kid, rarely says anything in class. She's also one of Lami's room neighbours, not that Lami spends a lot of time in her own room in the first place.

"Did you have a fun break?" The girl asks with a faint smile as she approaches. Lami is pretty sure she is of some sort of royalty, but honestly she can't remember. Daughter of a mayor? Not of the same pedigree, but still influential to some degree. Rey? Rin? Something to that effect.

"Yeah." Lami shrugs, a war raging in her heart, "Yours?"

Rin softly giggles, hiding her mouth behind a hand, "It was nice. I'm happy to be back, though."

"Oh?" She hums, not really caring enough to ask _why_ but there's still at least 30 girls in the line-up ahead of her and it would make the wait much easier if she just asks, "Why's that?"

"Friends, of course!" Rey (or Rin) laughs again.

There's no warning when she reaches forward and wraps Lami into a hug. _Immediately_ uncomfortable, Lami's shoulders scrunch up to her ears as she goes completely rigid. She awkwardly stares around, idly noticing how the other girl is half a head shorter than her, and wonders if she's supposed to reciprocate or not. Lami would rather not reciprocate. The hug is short-lasting, but Lami still inches away from the other when she is released. Rin (or Rey) shyly smiles up at her, making Lami feel even _more_ uncomfortable.

Does Rey (or Rin) believe they are….. Friends?

Lami's mind goes blank for a few moments at the mere thought, and in this time Rin (or Rey) takes it as an incentive to start chattering. Something about her holiday and festivals, but Lami isn't paying all that much attention.

Before Lami's mind can rot too much, a voice to her right says, "Rin! There you are! Did you save me a spot?"

It's another girl with short blond curly hair.

 _Oh god, there's two of them_ , Lami realizes with horror, staring between the two girls. The only difference is their eye colour and height; the one who just approached is a few centimeters taller than Lami.

So, Lami _isn't_ an asshole for not remembering Rin's name— just for forgetting the fact that there were _two_ of them. Somehow, to Lami's mind, this feels more forgivable.

"I was just talking to Lami," Rin says, with that same faint smile. "You can wait with us if you want."

Rey eyes Lami for a short moment before huffing, "I think I'd rather go to the back."

Bristling, wondering what _her_ problem is, Lami rolls her eyes and watches as the girl leaves. She curls a fist over the strap of her satchel bag. _Kids_. She doesn't understand them or their need for useless drama.

"Sorry." Rin murmurs, staring after her sister, "She doesn't mean anything by it."

"Sure," Lami says, turning to see how long the line is. There's still at least twenty. Sighing quietly, she half turns to the other girl, "I've already forgotten about it."

.

.

.

Three days.

Three days is all it takes before she _snaps_. Restlessness fizzes in her veins, _refusing_ to let her sit still. No, no, no. Keep busy. Distract the hands. Divert the mind away from the happenstance in the corner of her eye.

With gusto, Lami throws the covers off of her bed, dresses warmly, packs her candles and notebooks, and returns to the song and call of the tunnels.

Perhaps it's a point of concern that Lami feels more at ease in the dark, dusty passageways beneath others feet than in the company of her peers. Then again, she thinks that there are many points of concern in regards to herself. There's an entire list that could be made up. To highlight her growing detachment and avoidance to people without addressing the obvious causes are, to put it simply, a mistake on... whoever's part.

Lami pauses walking.

Not that anyone is pointing out the concerns, besides herself.

"God," Lami mutters to herself, placing a hand to her head. She's going stir crazy _already_. How is she going to survive an entire school year?

Breathing heavily, she reminds herself: one day at a time.

The tunnels are quiet and smell like dust. They offer no judgement as Lami takes a moment to reorient herself.

.

.

.

"No, no no no—" Lami rapidly chokes out, three hours later, wildly swinging her candlestick around the hidden alcove.

Empty.

The entire room is fucking _empty_.

There's a long moment where she stands frozen, immobile, her breath stuck in her throat as her thoughts come together and fall away.

Running to the table to place her candle on its surface, Lami spins around with frantic aggravation. Her heart races, quietly swearing when she realizes she got wax on her thumb. She ignores it. She checks the bookcases, climbing to the top of shelves and reaching an arm into the slim crack between the top and the ceiling. Nothing. She drops to her knees, breaking the skin as the rough carpet cuts into her, and checks underneath the table and chair. Nothing. She checks the carpet, for any sort of lump that might be hiding something—

 _Nothing_.

" _No,_ no, no, no—" She repeats, smashing her fist against the floor, once, twice, three times. "What the _fuck_?

Lami doesn't understand. What is going on? What happened to the room? Where did all the books go? The maps? The globe? Why is it empty? Where did it all go? When did this happen? Why did this happen? What is happening?

She repeats her search, poking and prodding at _any_ surface that might be hiding objects. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass.

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

A _rage_ , fierce and blazing, suddenly scorches her insides as something _snaps_ in her. Unthinking, she smashes her fist against the carpet with a _roar_. Throwing herself forward, she grabs the chair and _throws_ it across the alcove. Wood splinters at the impact. What's the point, what's the _point_ of all of this? Fisting her hands, nails digging into the skin of her palm, she _burns_. She's unsatisfied. She _needs_ something _more_. There's something _foul_ inside of her, festering and irrational. She needs to lash out, she needs to _ease_ the sudden _flow_ of _emotion_ that she's drowning in, the noose of _wrath_ that has snaked its way around her neck—

Lunging towards the chair, Lami grabs it by the arm and _whacks_ it on the floor. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again—

Until there's no chair left.

Splinters stick out of her palms, deep and stinging. The minimal pain is almost a distraction. Almost. Almost. But still, she's not satisfied. _Seething_ , Lami flings herself at one of the bare bare bare _bare_ walls; thrashing, kicking, tackling— unthinking, yelling, fracturing, sobbing, spilling.

By the time Lami calms down she has fallen to the floor in a heap, head bowed. Tears fall from her eyes and onto her lap as an _aching_ sob claws its way out of her throat. Blunt, broken, bleeding fingernails dig into the flesh of her arms as she hugs herself. But no matter how hard she tries to hold the pieces together, Lami can't stop herself from shaking, can't stop the tremors that rake through her body.

It's dumb. It's stupid. They're just fucking books. She doesn't—

She doesn't _understand_ what's happening.

.

.

.

Lami doesn't register the damage done until the next morning. She blankly stares at her hands and knees, at the mess she has made.

There's a void in her, as though the abrupt surge of emotion has bled her empty of feeling.

She spends three hours picking out the pieces of wood from her hands. It hurts. She doesn't remember it hurting last night, but every once in awhile she winces when she flexes her hand. In comparison, her knees are not so bad. Just carpet burnt. Lami spends more time poking and digging her fingernails into the injuries than she knows she should.

There's no one in the bathroom when she showers. Lami doesn't think much about it.

She bandages her knees and hands before dressing into her uniform. When she draws open her curtain she realizes, oh. It's close to lunchtime. No wonder no one is around.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Lami stares at the floor and wonders if going to class is even worth it at this point.

Head in hands, Lami laughs; thick, husky, broken.

What's the _fucking_ point?

( she gives herself three minutes before she stands up and goes to class )

.

.

.

"Miss Trafalgar, of your wrongdoings, skipping class must be one of your most bold," Her etiquette teacher howls, pacing back and forth with her hands tucked into the small of her back.

From across the office, The President huffs.

"We, here at St. Monroe's, work tirelessly to build our students into the excellent ladies we all know they have the potential for! And yet, you— you! Constantly spit on the efforts of our establishment! We cannot have this, Madeline! This simply cannot be unaddressed! Miss Trafalgar is constantly disrupting my class! My wellbeing here at this school!"

Lami sinks into her chair, unable to stop her eyes from rolling. The teacher is being a tad bit dramatic, in her opinion. A disruption? If anything, Lami does her best to duck her head and blend in. The worst thing she has ever done is to fall asleep in class.

"She is negatively affecting the other students! They are rebelling as we speak! They see that we are lenient with this- this!" The teacher's cheeks wobble as she gestures aggressively at her, "Soon enough we will have our students missing class regularly! They will start talking back at us! We must stop this at the root of the problem!"

Mouth thinning into a line at the accusations, Lami stares blankly at the carpet on the floor. She thought that her tantrum last night flushed all the emotion from her, but the anger that pools in her stomach at this unjust treatment proves otherwise. Maybe she should be thankful for her teacher; anger is much easier for Lami to deal with than _silence_.

"That is quite enough, Giovanna." The President cuts in sternly, "I understand your concern, but did you have to drag her here by the ear? I am a busy individual and I cannot waste my time dealing with trivial matters such as this."

"This is not trivial Madeline! I am asking for consequences!"

"A week in detention should do," The President drawls, turning her attention back to the mound of paperwork on her desk, "Really, Giovanna, did you ever stop to question why she was late? Or did you, once again, act without thinking? Time and time again I find myself reminding you that you must keep a clear and balanced mind."

Lami's Etiquette teacher makes a shrill noise. Her eyes dart between the woman as they verbally clash, wondering about the social dynamics of the school. Do the teachers even like the President?

"A slap on the wrist is not going to achieve anything with a student like this!" Her Etiquette teacher hollers, "No, no, there's a devilment inside of her! A waggle of a finger is not going to change her nature!"

Eyes widening, Lami inches away from her teacher. There are a few loose screws in this woman. Devilment! What does that even mean? Lami isn't that bad.

"Perhaps if she had a better role model for a teacher, Trafalgar would behave more appropriately." Blue eyes pierce into the teacher, and the President stands up from her seat to approach and open the large wooden door to her office. "Now, I think it is time for you to leave, hm? You have another class to attend to."

The Etiquette teacher gaps at the President, face flushing furiously as she stomps out of the office. The door closes behind the teacher. Lami isn't entirely certain why the President is taking her side on this, but she is slightly relieved.

Heels click against the floor as the President rounds on Lami, voice sharp and cold as she demands, "There will be no more skipping of classes, do you hear me?"

"... Yes, ma'am."

"Now, show me your hands."

Lami blinks, immediately thinking that she is about to get her knuckles struck as a punishment before she notices the President kneeling in front of her. Taking Lami's hands into her own, the President observes the dozen or so adhesive bandages plastered to her fingers, palms, and knuckles. Plucking at one, she peels off one of the wings to reveal a small but deep cut. Smoothing a thumb over the bandage to put it back in place, the President heaves a loud indignant huff.

Oh, Lami thinks after a moment, face flushing with slight embarrassment. Quietly, she recalls Law accusing her of baseless suspicion. Her cheeks burn brighter.

"I assume you have not seen treatment at the nurse's office," The President says, voice dry and judging. She drops Lami's hands as she stands up, wipes her own against the fabric of her skirt, "You, of all people, should know better, Trafalgar."

Lami stubbornly stares at the floor.

"Go to the nurse's office. You will attend detention with Mrs. Aelda for the next two weeks, starting from 7 on the dot. Any more trouble from you and I'll have you in the kitchen scrubbing pots and pans, do you understand me?"

"... Yes, ma'am."

"You may leave."

Lami stands up but she hesitates, fingers tapping against the wooden arm of the chair.

"Have your ears stopped functioning?" The President asks while raising an eyebrow, sitting back down at her desk.

"Why?" Lami blurts out, raising her gaze to meet the President's. Is she the reason why the artifacts in the alcove is gone? Is she the reason why the tunnels are unused and locked away in some places? There are so many why's that fill her mind, but Lami can only ask, "Why did you defend me? … Ma'am."

The President is silent for a long moment before she slides a pair of glasses onto her face, "As I informed you when we met, Miss Trafalgar, I do not tolerate insolence of any sort. A trouble child you may be, but I will not stand by and watch as my faculty harasses a student— especially one who has no means to protect herself. We are here to teach and educate students who do not know better. It is an unfortunate day when those in authority do not know better, either."

Lami stares, silent and conflicted. She shakily inhales and gives a firm nod, "... Thank you."

"Do not thank me. It is my job." The President dismisses, waving a hand at her, "Now, leave."

Nodding once more, Lami does as she is told.

.

.

.

Later that night, Lami stares at her reflection in the bathroom. Both hands splayed out on the counter as she leans on them, staring, staring, staring at herself.

In all honesty, Lami tends to avoid mirrors.

She's not sure when this started. Maybe it was when she realized she, or at least a part of her, is not from this world. The instinctual flinch at seeing the reflection of something, someone, unfamiliar, despite not knowing what to expect in the first place. Black hair? Blond hair? Brown eyes? Blue? Dark skin, light skin? She can't remember. Or maybe it was when the anticipation of Amber Lead Syndrome began to eat away at her, petrified to chance even a _glimpse_ and see white white _white_.

Lami had a temper tantrum last night. She can feel the effects sting her palms as she presses her weight onto them. _Something_ in her _cracked_ last night—

"No more," She tells herself, "Never again."

That _rage_ , that _demand_ for deconstruction— she cannot _afford_ to live like this. On the edge, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for the next bout of irrational outbursts. No, no. Lami _can't_ let this happen again. She doesn't know what will happen after Flevance, where she will be, what she will do. Situations like _this_ could be her unravelling. She cannot allow this to happen again. What if _Law_ saw her like that? Thrashing and yelling, hellbent on obliterating the _fury_ that had crawled its way under her skin?

No, no.

"Behave," Lami whispers.

Black, black, _black_ eyes stare back at her.

( they offer no promises )

* * *

 **and so lami's series of unfortunate events begins!**

 **i know i said that this would be the last chapter, but i ended up writing 16k for it and i'm not even finished, so! i decided to post the first half. this seemed like an okay note to end the chapter on, esp since pt.2 is not as... kind. the next half should be up on saturday or sunday!**

 **thanks for reading! cheers!**

 **if you are interested in asking any questions or want updates/art/shitposts/etc, check out my blog for this story at: fic-pickyourpoison . tumblr . com**

 **[date: 2O19/11/O8] [word count: 11627]**


	10. expulsion (pt2)

warnings. / minor violence.

* * *

O9.

 **PICK YOUR POISON**

 _expulsion (pt.2)._

* * *

Lami avoids the library.

It's odd, but a part of her _grieves_ over the loss.

Most of her, however, finds the situation _infuriating_. Instead of finding answers she is left with a blank slate; how is she supposed to continue where she left off with only a few books and her notes?

Unfulfilled. Unsatisfied.

She feels as though the universe itself is _teasing_ her. Giving her loose threads to chase that end up being dead ends, red herrings, or are ripped from her hands before she can decipher its meaning.

It's an _aggravating_ line of thought; she hadn't realized how… sloppy she was getting. Or maybe she had never been careful in the first place.

What did she _think_ was going to happen? She'd stumble across the answers of the universe, served to her on a platter? With no _genuine_ effort put into it? Lami catches herself laughing humourlessly at this thought as she idly scribbles in a notebook as a teacher drones on and on.

 _This_ , all of _this_ , means _nothing_. The books aren't going to be what determines if she lives or dies, the tunnels are not going to help her fight a life threatening disease. Her only goal should be _survival_ , and yet here she is twisting herself around _anything_ that offers even a minimal amount of instant gratification.

This won't happen again, she tells herself. Next time, if she finds something she wants, she'll sink her fingers into it and refuse to let go.

.

.

.

With the library temporarily blacklisted, Lami takes to the tunnels.

For weeks she explores, attempts to find new doorways or ladders leading to rooms. She investigates the locked rooms and their contents (mostly paper and supplies), thoroughly studies the doorless hallway for a second and third time (with no results), and follows through slim passages she has yet to visit.

Other nights she roams the forests behind the school; dozing by the lake, climbing trees, falling off trees, hiding the injuries the next day.

It's a listless experience.

.

.

.

Lami's birthday comes and goes.

She gets a letter from her father asking how her birthday went and she remembers, oh, right, _that_ is a thing, isn't it?

Five years. It's been _five years_.

She responds with a lie. It went great. Friends stole little cakes from the kitchen and whittled down candles so she could make a wish. A waste of a candle, if you ask Lami, but adorable nonetheless. They huddled together in her room after curfew and they played games until the dean dragged them out by the ear. They tried to reason with the woman, but she simply would not listen.

He'd be upset to know the truth.

.

.

.

Five months in, Lami makes a discovery.

After her bout with the library, she views her map making with… forced leisure. Her map means nothing, the school means nothing; she simply does not like to leave things _unfinished_. Not when it's within her control to do so. She completes the map because there is nothing else for her to do at this school, and that is that.

( it sounds like a lie, even to her own mind )

But, five months in, Lami finds a tunnel that looks used.

It's interesting; the entrance is through a crawl space that has grooves dug into the wall on one side, and a rope tied and coiled around a rock on the other. Less of an architectural design, more of human intervention. _Proof_ that, at some point, the tunnels have been used. By the state of the rope, she guesses somewhere in the past fifty years.

The tunnel itself is bare of any dust or cobwebs; instead the walls are lined with unlit torches and the floors are made of stone tiles. A stark difference from the dirt or concrete floors of the other tunnels. Kneeling to the ground to get a better look, she notes the wear and tear of the stone. This is a used tunnel; but for what?

After a moment's thought, she turns to the right and proceeds forward.

If someone were to find her like this, there would be no hiding. A thrill flutters in her stomach at the thought, anticipation and excitement rising. Logically, she knows she shouldn't feel _happy_ about a situation like this. It's dangerous, it could cost her slot at the school. This late into her life, she can't afford to get caught. Even still, her heart flutters.

Lami spends the next ten, twenty, thirty minutes coming up with a believable lie as to why she is in the tunnels instead of her bed.

At thirty minutes Lami starts to worry; just how long is this tunnel?

She continues.

Thirty turns to forty, forty turns to fifty— and there, at the end, is light. Faint, barely there.

With the moon watching from overhead, colouring the ground and sea with light, a small beach with cliffs on either side lays before her. Easing out of the opening slowly, she glances around. The beach is surrounded by all sides, with only the tunnel and sea as ways of exit. Stepping forward, her feet dig and sink into the sand.

An interesting find, indeed. She wonders about the uses of this beach as she crouches down and runs her fingers through the sand. Why is this the only tunnel thus far that is noticeably operated? An emergency exit, of sorts?

Lami hums and sits down in the sand while watching the waves crash against the shore. After a few minutes she pulls out one of her notebooks, the memory of Law's scolding whispering in her ear.

.

.

.

Whenever newspapers arrive at Briar North, Lami is one of the first girls to grab one. It certainly helps that Ruth, one of the secretaries, has no qualms stealing one from the staff room for her.

It doesn't matter if it's the World Economy News, the North News Incorporated, or the Weekly Chronicle; sooner or later (usually sooner) Lami gets her greedy hands on one and tears it apart. Cuts out segments of articles and glues them into a notebook, pictures lining her window, and crossing out political figures she doesn't like with bold marker. She likes the North News because it comes with logic puzzles on the back, though the content of the paper is riddled with obvious bias.

More than anything, though, Lami _desperately_ searches for any information pertaining to Flevance.

Sometimes she is relieved when she sees nothing, sometimes she is frozen _stiff_.

.

.

.

Someone giggles nearby.

"You're going to get sick."

Lami hums, eyes closed and half asleep. It is cold, but in a nice way. Like everything has faded away and she's just… floating. She wants to go back to sleep. She's already sick, anyway. A cold is nothing in comparison.

"You're going to be late for class, again." They try again.

"Don't care." Pulling her hat down to cover her eyes and ears, Lami stubbornly tries to resume sleeping.

"Ms. Rosalin wouldn't like to hear that," The person pulls at her hat, giggling once more.

Squinting up, Lami spots a halo of blond hair and grumbles. Rin. Again. The girl is getting far too ambitious and nosy for her own good. A bit hypocritical, perhaps, for Lami to think such… And she has no excuses to justify this behaviour. She is just _annoyed_.

"Your cheeks are red," Rin points out with a subdued grin, leaning over Lami.

 _We're not friends_ , she wants to say. Instead she gets up and brushes the snow from her coat and pants. Giving the other girl a moody stare, Lami stalks off and ignores the tinkling laughter behind her.

.

.

.

By the time winter arrives, Lami's resolve to avoid the library crumples away like drying sand.

The tunnels are too cold at night to properly explore, and the prospect of the ceiling caving in on her still lingers in her mind. Her map-making remains at a stand-still until the weather brightens; it's difficult to hold a candle and pen when both are shaking due to the cold. Going outside is a terrible idea altogether; she'd leave evidence in the snow and her clothes would get soaked and leave tracks on the floor.

This leaves her with little else to do.

Twiddling her thumbs, staring at the wall next to her bed, waiting waiting waiting for a slumber that will not arrive for another three, four hours.

It takes two nights, trapped in her thoughts, to relent to the temptation the library.

.

.

.

The hidden alcove is a mess. This is somewhat odd, given how empty the room is. Wood splinters coat the floor. Dry, browning blood smears the opposite wall. Furniture toppled over and collecting dust.

Lami's mouth twitches, standing silently as she takes in the sight. "You're an idiot." She mutters to herself, leaning over to scoop up a handful of splinters. What if they came back and found the room like this? Hardly inconspicuous.

Placing her candle on the ground, she gently sits and begins to clean up the disaster she had wrought.

.

.

.

Days turn into weeks, which turn into months.

Time at St. Monroe's feels distorted, like the walls repel the common ticking of a clock. Bending, twisting, flattening. Days draw out, but bleed together. A fog lingers over the months behind her, leaving her to ponder what meaningless tasks she has done.

Lami learns about flowers and dancing and dialects. She listens to teachers talk about maths and sciences with boredom, languidly draws and learns about different instruments. She reads and she writes, but even her secret activities start to lose their glossy attraction. Trapped on an island with nowhere to go and nothing to do, eyes glued to newspapers in search of the words _disease_ ; _contamination_ ; or _genocide_.

She watches the Principal, waiting and _waiting_ for the woman to do something, anything. There's a growing list of crimes with her name written all over, theft and trespassing being the minor of her offenses. But it would seem her paranoia has gotten the better of her once again, as the Principal does nothing except greet her and ask about her classes.

Her mind is sharp, but she can feel the edges start to dull.

This is her own doing. This was her choice.

Sacrifices have to be made.

.

.

.

Stretching out her limbs, Lami quietly walks up the staircase to her dorm.

Her time in the library has been fruitful, effectively spent reading about various rock formations and mineral properties. It's interesting to see how geology can be so similar to what she is used to (but, then again, isn't she _used_ to the oddities of this world, now?) but so different at the same time. The general classification process for minerals is so similar, using this world's equivalent to anions for their grouping, but the _elements_ themselves are— _different_ , but also the same. As though this world has a larger range of options to choose from.

Which, she thinks, makes sense.

Lami stifles a yawn as she takes on the last fleet of stairs. She wishes St. Monroe's included academic sources in their library; limiting their education to base-level information breeds misinformation, especially with the sciences.

As her vision breaches the last step, she freezes. Two individuals stand outside her door, silent and waiting. From their silhouettes, she gathers that they are _tall_. Imposing. Stomach twisting uncomfortably, Lami silently starts to creep back down.

"Miss Trafalgar," The familiar voice of the President interrupts, voice quiet and monotonous, "How kind of you to join us."

Lami's shoulders ease. It's just the President.

Sheepishly climbing up, Lami slowly makes her way toward the duo. As she gets closer she can identify the President, thin and lean with glasses perched on her nose. But the other… No, she doesn't recognize him. A tall, thickly built man in a dark suit and fedora.

"... I couldn't sleep?" Lami attempts with her mind set on damage control as silence reigns, only the sound of her feet softly padding across the floorboards to break it.

The President eyes her cooly before tucking her hands to the small of her back. She doesn't immediately speak, mouth twitching before going flat with purpose, "Miss Trafalgar I regret to inform you that your discharge from the St. Monroe's is effective immediately."

A couple seconds pass before the words make sense in her mind.

"Please grab your belongings and respect your peers, as they are still sleeping." Her tone remains even and stern, though her jaw stiffens as she pauses, "You will leave at once."

Lami stares, unblinking, for what might be seconds, minutes, hours. Is this a joke? No, The President isn't the type of person who would make a joke, let alone show up outside her bedroom so late in the night. Her mind refuses to process what is happening, why it's happening, how it's happening. She merely stands frozen, eyes wide, breathless as she attempts to string together a coherent thought.

The man at her side coughs, clearly about to say something.

"We are not _animals_ ," The President cuts in, voice _scathing_ , in what would appear to be an ongoing argument, "leave her to her devices."

The world wobbles around her as Lami walks into her room, and then suddenly everything _snaps_ into place. Adrenaline kicking in, her hands start to shake as she packs her clothes and books into her trunk.

Mind whirling, she backtracks to decipher what is going on. What line did she cross? Many, many lines. Did the President suddenly give in to the pressure of her Etiquette teacher? No, that doesn't make sense, the President has never succumbed like this before. Is it about the books? But why let her _back_ into the school if she'd known? Why wait _months_ to act on it? Is it about the tunnels, or about Lami stealing the library key? Even then, how did they know? Why were they waiting for her at her room instead of catching her in the act of a crime? Or even during the daytime? She could easily argue her case, that they have no evidence of her committing anything—

"Boss won't take the trunk," A gravelly voice says from behind her, presumably the man in the suit.

"Is that so." The President tuts, clearly unimpressed, "Miss Trafalgar, pack your bag with your essentials. I'll see to sending the rest of your belongings."

Something, something, _something_ tickles at the back of her mind, curling into her chest and filling her with _dread_. Lami doesn't understand _what_ is going on, or _why_ , but she does not think that it bodes well for her well being. She may be _paranoid_ about the President, yet she doubts that she would do something like _this_. Sneaking a child out in the middle of the night with little more than the clothes on her back. The President has given all indications towards integrity. But Lami doesn't have enough information to put the pieces together.

Hands shake as she sorts through her belongings. Lami doesn't have much to begin with, aside from her books. Even then, none of them are especially rare or difficult to come by. She grabs her personal notebooks and a change of clothes. Her notebooks are her only important belongings; they hold the secrets she has kept, from the plot of a story she once knew to the language of the hidden alcove.

Pausing, strategizing, she looks up at the two adults in the doorway, "... Can I get changed, first?"

"No." The man says.

"Yes." The President counters, closing the door before the man can respond.

Alone, sort of, Lami falls to a crouch and presses a hand to her mouth as her breathing becomes unsteady and frantic. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. She doesn't care how much Law claims she is overly paranoid— this situation is _sketchy as fuck_. Ultimately, the What and Why of her situation doesn't matter; what is important is _the how the fuck_ does she get away part. Swallowing thickly, heart in her throat and eyes burning, she schemes.

A tap on the door interrupts her from her thoughts.

Taking this as a signal to hurry up, Lami hastily wipes the water from her eyes and cheeks. Stupid. Pathetic. _Weak_. Breathing in thickly and harshly, she strips out of her clothes and into more comfortable ones suited for the cold weather outside. Ignoring, ignoring, ignoring the _tremble_ that sinks deeper than skin. Feverishly glancing around her room, she picks up a metal quill and string, shoving them into the pockets of her pants. Patting at her chest, she feels the imprint of the key still hanging around her neck.

"I'm changed." Lami calls out, voice wavering as electricity crackles in her veins.

The door opens and she empties her bag. It's mostly schoolwork, candles, books, and stationery supplies. She packs her notebooks first, they are her most important belongings, and then puts her extra clothes on top. She grabs a few pencils and pens, so the sake of it, and her money hidden in her desk.

"Boss doesn't like to wait."

Lami grits her teeth. _Boss_. How ominous.

Looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she slips on her sneakers. When she leaves her room, the President and the main in a suit march towards the stairs without giving her a second glance. Lami dutifully follows them down to the first floor.

"M'am, why am I being expelled?" Lami asks, not expecting an honest answer.

"Shh." The President hushes, "Students are sleeping."

Scowling, Lami waits until they have descended the staircase all the way to the common room before asking again, "Why am I expelled."

"Miss Trafalgar, are your ears not working? I have spoken."

Quiet for a few moments, Lami squints at the back of the President's head. What an awfully _vague_ answer. Too vague. But what if she is just reading too much into this? Not that she can personally recall anyone getting expelled from the school.

"Hmm, I don't know. I don't recall doing anything that would warrant this treatment." Lami hums, purposely baiting as she observes the adults postures.

Neither of them show any obvious signs of change as the President says, "Have you learnt _nothing_ while at school? No more questions. No speaking."

Pursing her lips, Lami bids her time.

.

.

.

The trek is quiet as the group maneuvers their way from the dorm to the administration building. Lami obediently follows, hands curled around the strap of her bag, as they enter through the side. Carefully pacing her breath, she watches their backs with wide, alert eyes.

They turn into familiar hallway, one she has visited _often_ , and Lami's heart rate accelerates. She waits, holding her breath, as one, two, three—

 _Now_.

Lami sprints to the side, not even three feet, and nimble hands press into the wall. The man in a suit grunts, but Lami has already triggered the trap door before words can form in his mouth. She doesn't hesitate; Lami throws herself down the steep staircase, barely keeping herself from falling as she plunders through the dark.

It's terrifying, exhilarating— but she knows the tunnels like the back of her own hand, has spent years mapping it out.

The dark feels less oppressive now, as she runs through the passageways and ducks in and out of secret doors. It's comforting, blanketing, protecting her from prying eyes.

At an intersection she stops, panting, debating her options. She winces as she takes the quill out of her pocket, can feel the slow trickle of blood trail down her leg, and tucks it into the sleeve of her sweater. They had taken her to the administration building, which means they were likely going to take her to the docks, right? Well, if that's the case, she has the _perfect_ place to hide until she comes up with a plan to get out of Briar North.

Closing her eyes, Lami takes a deep breath and tells herself to _calm down_ despite the unease that coils in her chest. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she _wills_ herself to be _small_ , _unnoticeable_ , and _discreet_. Pulling into herself, tighter, voiceless, indiscernible. She doesn't _hear_ anyone behind her. It's likely they didn't follow her into the tunnels; unless they are extraordinarily quiet, so quiet that even the silent underground cannot compare.

No. She knows the tunnels. She would _know_ if someone had followed her.

Opening her eyes, Lami breathes out. She's _got this_.

.

.

.

Lami goes to the beach.

Protected by cliffs, no one would be able to find her if they explored the island. Even if they were to look over the edge, she can easily hide away into the cliff face. Worst case scenario; she could swim off into the sea. It's not a preferable option, but if characters- no, people - can swim through the Grand Line or the Calm Belt, then Lami can swim through some chilly waters.

It takes nearly an hour for Lami to get there, desperate to be _fast_ but also _quiet_. By the time she nears the exit to the tunnels, she unknowingly lets out a shaky breath. Her hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, from the _fear_ , both maybe, but she's just so reliev—

" _Achoo_!"

She freezes in the opening between the tunnel and the beach, a deep and unshakable terror flooding her senses.

 _She isn't alone, the beach **isn't** empty_.

"I hate the North Blue!" A man shouts, stomping in the snow covered sand, sneezing again as he pulls his coat close to his body. His first mistake, she thinks distantly, is the fact that he chose to wear _leather pants_ to the North Blue. A rookie mistake.

He's not from here.

"Why did it have to be me—" He catches sight of Lami and releases a shrill scream, "AAAH!"

Lami jerks at the noise, stiff and breathless as she takes in the sight of seven men wearing suits and hats lined on the beach, a large ship in the distance, and three smaller row boat pulled up onto the shore.

 _I've made a terrible mistake_ , she realizes, throat burning.

They came at night. They wanted to make this a quiet ordeal. _Of course_ they wouldn't go to the _fucking_ docks.

"Oh." The man sighs, wiping a hand over his face with obvious relief, "It's just a little girl."

"Boss," One of the men says, "That's the one."

Whipping around, lavender hair fluttering in the wind, the man gaps and desperate searches is clothes. Then, after a second, he pulls out a mask and presses it to his mouth, "Those useless fools! Geh! But no one can get past the great Spandam! Fell right into my trap! Haha!"

Surmising that this man is an _idiot_ , who did not plan this _whatsoever_ , Lami jerks backwards to run away. The hedge maze is the closest she can get to the docks. There are plenty of buildings there she can hide out in until—

She crashes into a body, hands wrapping around her neck and shoulders.

"Now, now! What's the rush?" The lavender man laughs, nose high in the air from where he stands on the beach. Then, loudly to himself, he hoots, "Father will _have_ to promote me when he hears that I have single-handedly completed this mission! Caught a girl not even the great Madeline, _Breaker of Lambs_ could! HA!"

This man is annoying, she decides with a grimace. Inhaling sharply, Lami makes a rapid, impulsive, last-ditch effort. Survival at the forefront of her mind. What do these men want with her? Why are they taking her? She might die. She might die. _She might die. She can't let that happen_. Slipping the quill from her sleeve she wastes no time as she _drives_ it into the man's thigh, aiming for the femoral artery. She thinks she misses, but she can't bother to look. Her captor hisses with pain, body curling as his hands release her.

Quick-stepping around him she makes to sprint—

A hand grabs her from hem of her neckline, and Lami chokes as they _jerk_ her backwards. She's hit with a sudden _whiplash_ when she is suddenly thrown across the beach.

One second she's by the tunnel opening. The next second she is on the other side of the beach, hands grabbing her from all angles. Her head spins, mind unable to handle the _speed_ of the throw.

" _Miss Trafalgar_!" The President's voice _thunders_ from the tunnel exit as she appears from its depths, "Someone, attend to this man _immediately_."

Despite the lavender man's status as their 'Boss', three of the men in suits and fedoras hastily move to follow her request.

"Thank you for making this so _easy_ ," The lavender man smugly leers, eyes shining in the moonlight as he continues with a mocking tone, " _Miss Trafalgar_."

The injured man is dragged over to one of the row boats. Lami _tugs_ at the hands that hold, confine, trap. She refuses to go down without a fight, _growling_ as she thrashes and kicks against her captors.

" _Stand down_ Miss Trafalgar," The President scolds, the warning clear in her voice.

The warning is met with deaf ears; Lami will not _let_ herself be taken.

"What happened to protecting students who cannot defend themselves, to educating instead of dismissing?" Lami barks back, straining against the hands.

The President is silent, and when her mouth opens to respond she is interrupted by a laugh.

"A pity indeed!" The lavender man says, slinking closer to Lami and the shoreline, "She was one of your top candidates, was she not? Haha! Truly unfortunate that _it's_ going to waste. Clearly this, girl, thing, has the makings. Doesn't even _need_ the full desensitizing indoctrination! Tut tut, you've held out on us, Madeline, you know I liked the _deranged_ ones best. Right for the thigh! Ha!"

"Do you feel the need to prattle without considering who might hear?" The President asks with an _icy_ tone, "Are you as half witted as I have always assumed?"

The lavender man's hand falls from his face, exposing how his mouth twitches and falls into a scowl as he ignores her comment, "Well, no need. _It_ won't be an issue in a couple months time. Really, Madeline, you should be _thanking_ me. I'm cleaning up a mess of yours, preemptively. Wouldn't want any _pests_ ruining your reputation, after all."

Lami's heart _thunders_ in her chest, wildly looking from one to the other as the conversation goes on. There are blatant topics being spoken here that are _enormous_ , and the overall undertone is terrifying to say the least. She cannot even begin to wrap her mind around all the implications.

The Boss Man covers his mouth once more before he bends over Lami. With a gloved hand he taps a knuckle underneath her chin, _condescending_ , and he _coos_ when she snarls at him.

"Such fierce eyes. Truly a fledgling." The lavender man straightens, offers her a disgusted look as he wipes his glove on his jacket, and huffs, "Such a waste."

"Might I remind you, Spandam, that if you _clean up_ it will _not_ be your father who will be _addressing_ you."

The lavender man, Spandam, freezes and backs away a couple feet with a shrill laugh, "Don't you worry _Madeline_ ," The smile that stretches over his face is slick and greasy, "it _will_ get home, safe and sound, as I've been instructed."

"You talk too much," The President criticizes, tilting her chin up to look down on him properly, "clearly nepotism is the only reason why you've gotten to your position."

"You may be _favoured_ , Madeline, but I have certain _skills_ that your pride would never allow you to have. Your age has made you _soften_ , we'll see what _pull_ you still have."

Snapping his fingers, Spandam turns to his men and snarls, "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's get out of this dump."

He takes two steps, slips on sand, and falls to the ground.

Lami's lip twitches, horrified to be left in the hands of _this_ man. She feels a sharp pain in the back of her neck, before the world around her goes dark.

.

.

.

When Lami wakes up, she alone in a room the size of a closet. It is _just_ big enough to hold a bed and house a bucket.

Lips thinning into a thin line, she crawls off of the bed and stalks over to the door. She pulls on the handle, but doesn't budge. Anger colouring her face, Lami's hands curl into fists.

"Be quiet." A voice from the other side of the door mutters.

Using the bucket as a stepping stool, she looks through the small, barred window. One of the men wearing suits sit stationed outside the door, flipping through a magazine.

Jaw clenching, she hops off the stool and begins to pace.

.

.

.

Hours later, the rocking of the boat eventually lulls her back to sleep.

The sound of the door opening startles her awake, Lami clambering into the corner where her bed meets the wall with her bag shielding her. It's nighttime, given the lack of light coming in through the window.

A long moment passes as the man quietly assesses her, lantern in one hand. This isn't the same man who had been outside of her bedroom, or guarding her cabin, is at least a foot shorter. He says nothing as he places a plate of food at the foot of her bed. Lami eyes it with distrust, mind flipping through various scenarios.

As the man turns to leave she finds words blurting out of her mouth, "Do you intend on killing me?"

An odd question for an eight year old. But she can't help it. Lami can think of at least a dozen ways the food could be of malicious intent.

The man pauses at the door, large hands curling around the door knob. His voice low and gruff as he bluntly says, "You'd be dead already if we were."

He leaves and the door shuts.

.

.

.

There must have been something in the food and drink. The rest of the trip is spent in a blur, moments of slumber and awareness bleeding together until the man who has been feeding her drags her out of bed.

"You are home." He says.

Her mind feels foggy as she stands up, but nothing too drastic. Moving her limbs takes a bit of effort but after a few moments she regains control. Her mind, however, feels sluggish and _dry_ , as though experiencing a hangover.

They walk out of her cabin and through the ship. The man offers nothing else to say and Lami is too focused on not falling down to ask him questions. No other men in black appear throughout their trek, and she wonders what they do while on the boat. They are obviously henchmen. Do they play poker?

Before they emerge upon deck, the man pauses. He does not turn back to look at her as he says, "Do not linger once you leave."

Lami stares at his back, mind struggling to process his words. It takes a moment, but she nods.

She takes his advice to heart.

* * *

 **slides this out before slipping back into the void**

 **( thank you all for reading and waiting! next chapter will be a short intermission, hopefully i can get my life together during the holidays so we can finally _finally_ get to the genocide. cheers! )**

 **[date: 2O19/12/O4] [word count: 5316]**


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